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HOW SORROW WAS CHANGED 
INTO SYMPATHY. 



WORDS OF CHEER FOR MOTHERS 



BEREFT OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 



OUT o/the life of 



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MRS. PRENTISS, 

Author of the "Susy Books" etc. 



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/ APH 2(T1B84 



NEW YORK : 

Anson D. F. Randolph & Company, 

9OO BROADWAY, COR. 20th ST. 





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COPYRI 
GEORGE 




NEW YORK : 
Edward O. Jenkins, Robert Rutter, 

Printer, Binder,, 

20 North William St. 116 and 118 East 14th Street. 



* 



This volume contains the story of Eddy and 
Bessie, written by Mrs. Prentiss shortly after 
their death and passages from which were given 
in her memoir, verses relating chiefly to the loss 
of these children, a few of her letters to bereaved 
friends, and some thoughts by the editor on the 
death of infants. The most of it is now 
printed for the first time. The work is designed 
specially for mothers who mourn the loss of 
young children. And may it please God to com- 
fort every one of them who shall read it, with 
His own peace ! 

G. L. /> 
New York, February, 1884. 



THE DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDREN 
IN THE LIGHT OF FAITH. 



Various estimates have been i n f an t mor- 
formed as to the proportion tallt y- 
of mankind that die in infancy ; some 
making it more than a third, others not 
less than one-half. Such estimates are, 
of course, largely guesswork. The pro- 
portion has differed at different peri- 
ods and among different tribes and na- 
tions. The wide prevalence of infanticide, 
as in India and China, for example, has 
greatly increased it ; and so have other 
criminal practices, both in heathendom 
and Christendom. But irrespective of such 
special causes, it is certain that a vast num- 
ber of the human race have died, and still 
die, in early childhood. Little graves 
abound in every place of burial. There 
* *1 



VI 

are comparatively few households out of 
which no infant bier was ever carried. 
How many have been bereft of all their 
children ! The humane spirit of modern 
society, aided by medical skill and sani- 
tary science, has done much to reduce 
the scale of infant mortality ; but it is still 
large enough to cast a dark shadow over 
the face of existence. It suggests a prob- 
lem full of perplexity, and which science 
and philosophy seem alike unable, or un- 
willing, to grapple with. 

Death of in- Viewed solely as a natural 

fants as a nat- 
ural event. Its event, it is true, the death of lit- 

hopelessness. ,, ■. .,, , 

r tie children, however grievous, 

is yet of a piece with the general course 
of the world. By no choice of their 
own they are thrust upon this earthly 
stage of being and forced to take their 
chance in the bitter struggle of life. It is 
no more strange, perhaps, that they so often 
succumb than that so many spring blos- 
soms drop off and perish. Nature cares as 



Vll 



little for young children as for young ani- 
mals or plants. Nor is the death of infants 
at all more strange than that of boys and 
girls, or of young men and maidens. In 
either case death is full of anguish and 
disappointment. It is, too, so inexorable, 
the blow it deals is so stunning, that we 
have no will to resist, and can only express 
our amazement in groans and tears, or else 
in the dead silence of grief. 

But if we view the death of The death of 

infants as a 
little children on its moral Providential 

£*U6flt 

side, the case is wholly altered. 
For here we have to do — not with blind 
chance or with inexorable physical law, 
but with the ruling hand of God, the 
Father Almighty. His providence em- 
braces all events, both great and small, 
which affect human destiny. It would be 
as atheistic to say that without Him an in- 
fant leaves the world, as to say that with- 
out Him it came into the world. This is, 
indeed, a truth hard to believe, both be- 



Vlll 

cause it lies so entirely beyond the sphere 
of sense, and because it is so sublime and 
consoling. Some things seem almost too 
good to be true ; and this is one of them. 
For what is implied in our saying that the 
death of an infant is a Providential event ? 
It is implied that an infant has an immor- 
tal soul and is a special object of God's 
care and interest. In a certain sense, to be 
sure, the birds of the air, the fishes of the 
sea, and even the lilies of the field, are ob- 
jects of the Divine care. But not as spir- 
itual beings ; not as made in God's image ; 
not as capable of knowing and loving Him 
and of enjoying Him forever. It is in this 
peculiar sense that He cares for little chil- 
dren. He is their Father in heaven, and 
His love for them is infinitely more tender 
than that felt by their earthly parents. On 
the ground of this great love rests the be- 
lief, so unspeakably comforting, that if 
early taken out of the world, they do not 
perish, but inherit everlasting life. 



* 



IX 



This belief did not always 

Gro7vth of this 
prevail. It has been the slow belief. Its con- 

growth of centuries. We find tfZa'Ju 

nothing like it in the ethnic teaching of 

Christ. 
religions, and but little trace 

of it is to be found in the Old Tes- 
tament. The earlier revelations contain 
many proofs of God's gracious interest in 
children. The law of Jehovah protected 
them, and provided most carefully for 
their pious training. But they were re- 
garded as members of the family and shar- 
ers in its covenant privileges rather than in 
their infant personality, as destined to live 
forever. How little there is in the Old 
Testament about the future existence of 
either parents or children ! The distinct 
annunciation of both their immortality and 
its blessedness seems to have been reserved 
for " the fulness of the time " when He 
came, who is the light equally of this world 
and the next. Until Jesus said : " Suffer the 
little children to come unto Me, and forbid them 
not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven "j until 



* 



He "took them up in His arms, put His hands 
upon them and blessed them" infant salvation 
was a conjecture only — at best a hope — but 
not an assurance. And even the wonder- 
ful saying of the Lord Jesus would have re- 
mained an enigma, had not His own nativity 
furnished a key to its meaning. It may 
stagger the mere intellect to understand 
how the Babe in the manger could have 
been at the same time the Incarnate Word, 
the only-begotten of the Father ; but surely 
no one, whose faith does, sincerely and in 
tranquil conviction, accept this amazing 
truth, ought to marvel at the doctrine of 
infant personality, or that the souls of those 
dying in infancy enter into life eternal. 

The Incarnation shows us that Divinity 
itself once dwelt in a new-born child. 
" And the angel said unto them, Fear not ; for 
behold I bring you good tidings of great joy, which 
shall be to all people. For unto you is born this 
day in the city of David, a Saviour, which is 
Christ the Lord." 

And Christ is not the Saviour only, He is 

« 4« 



XI 

also the Pattern and Ideal of our humanity in 
all the stages of its development ; childhood 
no less than manhood is complete in Him 
alone ; yea, in Him both alike have their 
being. "All things have been created through 
Him, and unto Him ; and He is before all 
things, and in Him all things consist." 1 A su- 
pernatural light, issuing from His cradle, 
has shone upon ten thousand, yea, ten thou- 
sand times ten thousand cradles ever since. 
How many myriads of pious mothers have 
sung, and are still singing, their little ones 
asleep to the music of His name ! The story 
of His advent has been the inspiration of 
art and of literature. Probably no other pic- 
ture in all the world attracts to its shrine so 
many pilgrims, or adorns so many homes, as 
that of the Divine Child in the arms of the 
blessed among women. 

Some of the fairest gems of poetry, too, 
reflect His infantile grace and loveliness. 
This is strikingly true in our own language. 



' Coloss. i. 1 6, 17.— Rev. Ver. 



Xll 

From Spenser to Wordsworth and Keble it 
abounds in Christmas carols, in lullabies 
and hymns of childhood, in threnodies and 
epitaphs, which are full of sweetness and 
pathos, because they are so full of Him. 
Here is a specimen from the " Hallelujah " 
of George Wither, a Puritan poet and sol- 
dier of Cromwell's time : 

When God with us was dwelling here, 

In little babes He took delight ; 
Such innocents as thou, my dear ! 
Are ever precious in His sight. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

A little infant once was He, 

And strength in weakness then was laid 
Upon His virgin mother's knee, 
That power to thee might be convey'd. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

The wants that He did then sustain, 

Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee ; 
And by His torments and His pain, 
Thy rest and ease secured be. 
My baby, then forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 



Xlll 

Thou hast yet more to perfect this, 

A promise and an earnest got, 
Of gaining everlasting bliss, 
Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 



A new conception of child- 

New concep- 
hood, in truth, entered the Hon of child- 

world with the infant Re- in/an? destiny 
deemer. In no sphere of hu- *|f^^ * 
man life was the change 
wrought by His coming greater or more 
full of blessing. At first the change, per- 
haps, did not appear so distinctly as in the 
sphere of manhood and womanhood ; but 
from age to age it has revealed itself with 
ever-increasing power. Nor can we thank 
God too often, or too much, that in our own 
day its real significance and the benedictions 
wrapt up in it are so clear to the eye of 
faith. Especially is this the case with re- 
spect to those dying in infancy. For many 
centuries it was a doctrine of the Church 
that by water baptism alone could their 



XIV 



salvation be made sure ; and in later times, 
the opinion widely prevailed that, whether 
baptized or not, only a certain elect num- 
ber of them would inherit eternal life. 
These and various other theories limiting 
the salvation of infants, are still more or 
less widely held by good men ; not, surely, 
from any special lack of tenderness, but be- 
cause, in their view, such limitation is re- 
quired by fidelity to the teaching of Scrip- 
ture. The theories in question, however, 
no longer rule the Christian Church ; to a 
large extent they have lost their power, and 
are regarded as in conflict with the real 
teaching and spirit of the New Testament. 
It is now a common belief, in the Protest- 
ant churches at least, that all infants, dying 
in infancy, are regenerated and saved by 
Christ through the Spirit. A single extract 
from the writings of the late Dr. Charles 
Hodge will suffice to indicate the change 
of opinion on this subject, which has taken 
place within our own century. His lan- 
guage may be too strong as to the extent 



XV 



of the change, but coming from so eminent 
a champion of the old Calvinistic ortho- 
doxy, furnishes of itself a striking proof 
that the change is very great and radical : 

The Scriptures teach, according to the common 
doctrine of Evangelical Protestants, that all who die 
in infancy are saved. This is inferred from what 
the Bible teaches of the analogy between Adam 
and Christ. " Therefore, as by the offence of one 
judgment came upon all men to condemnation, 
even so by the righteousness of one the free gift 
• came upon all men unto justification of life. For 
as by one man's disobedience many were made sin- 
ners, so by the obedience of one shall many be 
made righteous" (Rom. v. 18, 19). We have no 
right to put any limit on these general terms, ex- 
cept what the Bible itself places upon them. The 
Scriptures nowhere exclude any class of infants, 
baptized or unbaptized, born in Christian or in 
heathen lands, of believing or unbelieving parents, 

from the benefits of the redemption of Christ 

Not only, however, does the comparison, which the 
apostle makes between Adam and Christ, lead to 
the conclusion that as all are condemned for the sin 
of the one, so all are saved by the righteousness of 
the other, those only excepted whom the Scriptures 
except ; but the principle assumed throughout the 
whole discussion teaches the same doctrine. That 
principle is, that it is more congenial with the nature 



XVI 



of God to bless than to curse, to save than to de- 
stroy. If the race fell in Adam, much more shall it 
be restored in Christ. If death reigned by one, 
much more shall grace reign by one. This " much 
more" is repeated over and over. The Bible every- 
where teaches that God delighteth not in the death 
of the wicked ; that judgment is His strange work. 
It is therefore contrary, not only to the argument of 
the apostle, but to the whole spirit of the passage, 
to exclude infants from the " all " who are made 
alive in Christ. 

The conduct and language of our Lord in refer- 
ence to children are not to be regarded as matters 
of sentiment, or simply expressive of kindly feeling. 
He evidently looked upon them as the lambs of the 
flock for which, as the Good Shepherd, He laid 
down His life, and of whom He said they shall 
never perish, and no man could pluck them out of 
His hands. Of such, He tells us, is the kingdom 
of heaven, as though heaven was, in great meas- 
ure, composed of the souls of redeemed infants. 1 

Much relating to this subject is, indeed, 
wrapt in mystery. It suggests many ques- 
tions to which neither reason nor Scripture 
enables us to give a definite answer. Pre- 
cisely when, or how, the souls of those 



1 Syst. TheoL, vol. i., pp. 26, 27. 



XV11 

dying in infancy are renewed and saved by 
Christ, we can not tell. But all that we 
willingly leave to Christ Himself and to 
the Blessed Comforter, by whose gracious 
power their salvation is wrought. Nor 
can we tell how, in the world within the 
veil, the new life, which had no opportu- 
nity for growth here, develops itself there 
unto the measure of the stature of the ful- 
ness of Christ. This also we gladly leave 
to the Master Himself, — content to know 
that our little ones are with Him and 
are "nurslings of the Holy Ghost." 

In the memoir of Mrs. Pren- „ , . 

The design of 

tiss occurs the following pas- this volume. 
sage: 

A chapter might be written about her love for little 
children, the enthusiasm with which she studied all 
their artless ways, her delight in their beauty, and 
the reverence with which she regarded the mystery 
of their infant being. Her faith in their real, com- 
plete humanity, their susceptibility to spiritual influ- 
ences, and, when called from earth, their blessed 
immortality in and through Christ, was very vivid ; 
and it was untroubled by any of those distressing 



XV111 

doubts or misgivings that are engendered by the 
materialistic spirit and science of the age. Con- 
tempt for them shocked her as an offence against 
the Holy Child Jesus, their King and Saviour. 
Her very look and manner as she took a young in- 
fant, especially a sick or dying infant, in her arms 
and gave it a loving kiss, seemed to say : 

" Sweet baby, little as thou art, 
Thou art a human whole ; 
Thou hast a little human heart, 
Thou hast a deathless soul." l 

The following pages exemplify what is 
here said. They show Mrs. Prentiss' ten- 
der feeling towards young children as a 
Christian mother ; how that feeling was 
deepened and enriched by sorrow; and 
how the sorrow was transfigured into lov- 
ing sympathy. In all this her case is not 
peculiar; it is that of thousands of Christian 
mothers, who have passed, or are passing 
now, through a like experience. The story 
of Eddy and Bessie is all the time repeating 
itself ; and similar letters to bereaved 



1 The Life and Letters of Elizabeth Prentiss, 
P- 305. 



XIX 

friends every day cross each other on their 
errands of holy cheer and solace. As in 
water face answer eth to face, so the heart of 
man to man. It consoles us in affliction 
to know that in our sighs and tears and 
groans we are not alone; — that others have 
felt just as we do; that others, too, have 
cried unto God out of the depths ; and that, 
after they had suffered a while, He gave 
them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for 7?ioimi- 
ing, the garment of praise for the spirit of heavi- 
ness. 

This little work contains nothing strange 
or new. The simple narrative, the verses 
and letters, which compose it, were penned 
many years ago, and without a thought that 
they would ever meet the eye of the public. 
And they would not now do so, had not the 
extraordinary favor with which the memoir 
of Mrs. Prentiss has been received, led the 
editor to hope that they might prove a word 
in season to some weary, sorrow-stricken 
hearts. He feels, as she so deeply felt, that 



no office is more Christ-like than that of a 
comforter; and that few so much need its 
gentle and cheering ministrations as moth- 
ers weeping at the graves of their children. 



I. 



Eddy's Birth and suffering Babyhood — Given 
back as from the Grave — " Not mine, but 
God's." 



Ah, joyful hearts that know not grief, 

Can never Jesus know ; 
He must be learned in darksome nights, 

Where bitter fountains flow ; 
Where souls are floated off to sea 

By tides of earthly woe. 

There have I met Thee, dearest Lord ; 

And oh, how passing sweet 
Was to my sinking soul the sound 

Of Thine approaching feet ! 
To point Thee out to drowning ones, 

Oh, make me, make me meet ! 



I. 



OUR dear little Eddy was born at 
New Bedford, on Sunday, October 
22, 1848, at three in the afternoon. His 
father was preaching at the time, on 
"Walking with God," and gave him his 
first greeting while his own heart was full 
of this delightful subject. We had selected 
for our first boy the name of Robert 
Leighton, and called him so for about a 
week, when it was exchanged for that of 
Edward Payson, in consideration of his 
having been born on the anniversary of 
his grandfather's death. He was a fine, 
healthy-looking boy, with a high forehead, 
dark blue eyes, and a good deal of hair on 
his head. On the Saturday succeeding his 
birth, we heard of my dear mother's seri- 



ous illness ; and when he was about three 
weeks old, of her death. 

We were not surprised that his health 
suffered from the shock it thus received. 1 
He began, at once, to be afflicted with dis- 
tressing colic, which gave him no rest, day 
or night. We supposed he would soon 



1 In a letter to a kinsman, written some years 
later, occurs the following passage : 

"Are you not all making a sad mistake in keep- 
ing C. ignorant so long of that [the sudden death 
of a sister] which she must learn, otherwise, on 
her sick-bed? Is she not in a bodily state now 
of less feebleness than she will be then ; and, con- 
sequently, better able to bear this distressing news ? 
You will say it is not to be communicated on 
her sick-bed ; but I greatly mistake if she does 
not so long for her sister's congratulations on the 
birth of her child, that it will be necessary to ex- 
plain why they are withheld. I feel strongly on 
this point ; for my friends, through ill-judging kind- 
ness, kept me ignorant of my dear mother's illness 
till after the birth of my little boy ; and when I was 
awaiting in a kind of transport of joy her sympathy 
in my gladness, I learned that she was on her dying 
bed. Eddy was just a week old, and I had no way of 
diverting my mind by employment of any sort — 
nothing to do but to lie the long day, the long night, 



* 



surmount this disorder; but on the con 
trary, he grew worse and worse. His father 
used to call him a " little martyr," and 
such indeed he was, for many long, tedious 
months. 

At last, between want of sleep and pain, 
he was sadly worn and emaciated, and Dr. 
Mayhew advised the use of opiates. We ad- 



reflecting on my sorrow. The constitution of my 
child received a shock from which it never recovered ; 
and I have not a single doubt that he would now, 
as far as human eye can see, be living in the enjoy- 
ment of the fine health of which he gave promise, 
had my affliction been made known to me before his 
birth, when I was not tied to one spot, with an un- 
sympathizing nurse ever present to witness my 
sufferings and upbraid me for them ; yes, if on my 
knees I could have spread my case before God. Af- 
fliction has, in my case, come hand in hand- with 
every child ; I have left my sick-room each time in 
mourning garments. This makes me feel for C, as 
I can not describe. L. told me how much she suffer- 
ed in this condition ; here, too, I can feel for her as a 
fellow-sufferer, for not one in ten thousand knows 
as well as I do the worth of a child, for whose at- 
tainment the agonies of months of martyrdom must 
be the penalty. All this must be my excuse for 
venturing to question your judgment." 



4 

ministered them with reluctance, but it was 
only by their aid we could procure for the 
little sufferer the sleep he could not live 
without. No language can describe the 
scene our nursery presented month after 
month ; during which he was never well 
enough for a single hour, with one excep- 
tion, to be dressed and taken from the 
room. He wore little night-gowns till he 
was old enough to put on short frocks. 
Often, for his and my own health, we at- 
tempted to ride out, but just as the car- 
riage would drive to the door, one of his 
paroxysms of pain would come on, and 
before we could get off his cloak, or I 
could throw off mine, we must hasten to 
administer something for his relief. A few 
moments' delay would reduce him to a 
state bordering so closely on convulsions, 
that I never dared wait even to deliberate 
what remedy I would use ; something must 
be snatched up at once. 

On the 16th of February the doctor, 



V 



who had visited him at intervals, of his 
own accord, came and spent about two 
hours carefully investigating his case. He 
examined Eddy particularly, and said it 
was a most trying condition of things, and 
he would gladly do something to relieve 
me, as he thought I had been through 
" enough to kill ten men." He urged me 
to increase the nightly dose of laudanum, 
declaring that, in his opinion, the child was 
suffering severely from want of sleep. 
During the next two weeks Eddy became 
more and more feeble ; he was so emacia- 
ted that if I had had any time for such in- 
dulgence of my feelings, I should have 
shed floods of tears whenever his little 
wasted frame was exposed to view. I 
dreaded washing and dressing him, because 
in this process I was obliged to see how 
every day he was losing flesh. 

Some persons had suggested that he 
cried from hunger, and I had made various 
attempts to feed him without having cour- 



age to persevere in the face of the danger 
to which I knew ill-cJwsen diet must ex- 
pose him. I was thus driven to procure a 
wet-nurse for him. A woman lived near 
by who had a child of about Eddy's age, 
plump and in fine health; I engaged her 
to come once in three hours to nurse 
him, and thought there was some reason 
to hope this plan might result in a favor- 
able manner. The first day on which this 
experiment was tried, Eddy could with 
difficulty swallow a drop of the new nour- 
ishment thus provided for him ; his suffer- 
ings all day were terrible ; and when at 
night he at last fell asleep under the influ- 
ence of an opiate, I could only lie and 
watch his uneasy slumbers, thinking he 
might not survive till morning. On learn- 
ing what I had done, Dr. M. hastened in 
to remonstrate with me on what he at first 
deemed a rash act. But on seeing the 
condition the poor little creature was in, 
he said I had done just right, and that, 



though there was now little hope that the 
child could be raised to health, the season 
of the year was in his favor, and there was 
a possibility that before warm weather ar- 
rived, a change for the better might occur. 
He said if I had continued to nurse him, 
that mother and child would have shared 
one grave very speedily. 1 

For two or three days after this, Eddy 
declined so fast that I expected to see him 
breathe his last from hour to hour. I 
asked the nurse if she had ever seen so 
feeble a child ; she said she had. I asked 



1 In a letter to her husband's mother, written at 
this time, she says : " I can't describe what we have 
suffered during the past week. But if Eddy gains 
strength on the new milk, he will probably get the 
upper hand of his trouble. His eyes are as bright 
as diamonds, but otherwise he does not look at all 
like himself. We can only wait in hope and patience. 
Dear mother, we are in a good school, hard as it is, 
and we shall not suffer one pang too many ; so don't 
worry about us, if you can help it ; will you? We 
long to see you, but we feel that you are very near 
us in your love and sympathy and prayers ; and that 
is next best to being with you." 



8 

her if it lived, and she said, " Oh, no ! " 
and afterwards told me that she thought 
he would die in her arms, every time she 
took him from mine. At the end of the 
first week, however, he had evidently im- 
proved ; and from that time gained flesh 
and strength very rapidly. I now left off 
nursing him myself, and began to feed him, 
and at the end of a month, as he was quite 
recruited, and had an excellent appetite, 
and as his nurse became irregular and care- 
less about coming, I dismissed her. He 
continued to thrive on the arrowroot pre- 
pared for him, though there was little, if 
any, improvement as to his colic. Still, he 
had now more strength with which to bear 
this pain, and we kept hoping every day 
he would be freed from it. 

His aunt Tibby came, this spring, to 
help me take care of him, and he became 
much attached to her, as she did to him. 
She stayed till he was more than a year old, 
and devoted herself to him day and night. 



When he was about eight months old, 
we determined to discontinue the use of 
opiates. He was now a fine, healthy baby, 
bright-eyed and beautiful, and his colic was 
reducing itself to certain seasons in each 
day, instead of occupying the whole day and 
night, as heretofore. We went through 
fire and water, almost, in trying to procure 
for him natural sleep. We swung him in 
blankets, wheeled him in little carts, walked 
the room with him by the hour, etc., etc.; 
but it was wonderful how little sleep he 
obtained, after all. He always looked 
wide awake, and as if he did not need sleep. 
His eyes had gradually become black, and 
when, after a day of fatigue and care with 
him, he would at last close them, and we 
would flatter ourselves that now we too 
should snatch a little rest, we would see 
them shining upon us in the most amusing 
manner, with an expression of content and 
even merriment. 

About this time he was baptized. I well 



IO 

remember how, in his father's study, and 
before taking him to church, we gave him 
to God. He was very good while his papa 
was performing the ceremony, and looked 
so bright and so well, that many who had 
never seen him in his state of feebleness, 
found it hard to believe he had been aught 
save a vigorous and healthy child. One 
lady told me that she laughed right out in 
church, because his father and he looked 
so alike. He is, indeed, his papa's own 
boy, saving the eyes. 

My own health was now so broken down 
by long sleeplessness and fatigue, that it 
became necessary for me to leave home for 
a season. Dr. Mayhew promised to run in 
every day to see that all went well with 
Eddy ; his aunty was more than willing to 
take this care upon herself, and many of 
our neighbors offered to go often to see 
him, promising to do anything for his 
safety and comfort, if I would only go. 
Not aware how miserable a state I was in, 



II 

I resolved to be absent only one week, and 
only took with me clothes for that week ; 
but I was away for a whole month. As 
soon as I had gone, his aunt Tibby had 
him daguerreotyped, and sent the picture to 
me. It was like him, except in its being so 
very dark, while he was fair, and had light 
hair. On my return I found him looking 
finely. He had had an ill turn, owing to 
teething, which they had kept from me, 
but had recovered from it, and looked 
really beautiful. i 

His father and uncle S. S. had been to 
see him once during our vacation, and we 
were now expecting them again with his 
aunt Mary and the three children and his 
grandmother. We depended a great deal 
on seeing Eddy and Una together, as she 
was his twin cousin, and only a few hours 
older than he. 

But the very evening of their arrival he 
was taken sick, and though they all saw 
him that night looking like himself, by the 



12 

next morning he had changed sadly. He 
grew ill and lost flesh and strength very 
fast, and no remedies seemed to have the 
least effect on his disorder, which was in- 
duced by teething. His aunt Mary used 
to help us in the care of him, and would 
walk with him in her arms to relieve us. 
On Sunday, September 16th, he was very 
low and suffered a great deal ; he would 
not allow us to sit with him one moment, 
and he was carried about the nursery day 
and night, during which his countenance 
had a strange, unnatural expression and 
aspect, and he constantly pressed his feet 
against the breast of whoever was carrying 
him, as if in terrible distress. His aunt 
Tibby and I were alone with him at night, 
and became more and more alarmed. At 
two in the morning I woke his father, told 
him how Eddy appeared, and asked him to 
go to the doctor and describe his condition. 
He was gone only a few moments, and on 
his return, said the doctor had ordered 



fifteen drops more laudanum ; and retired 
again to bed, having had a hard day's work 
on Sunday. We gave Eddy with great re- 
luctance this additional opiate, as he had 
had a good deal during the day, both by the 
usual mode and in starch enemas. His 
distress increased till we thought him dy- 
ing ; and his aunty ran across the street for 
a neighbor, who came directly. She was a 
person of experience, and after giving one 
glance at the poor little sufferer, ran her- 
self for the doctor, though it was still dark. 
He came directly ; was much concerned to 
see Eddy in such a state ; said there had 
been a great change during the night, and 
that the remedies employed had acted un- 
favorably. I said I had thought him dy- 
ing ; he replied, " He is not dying now" 
but sat down with an air of despondency 
that made me soon after ask if I had not 
better call Mr. Prentiss. He said I had, 
and I did so. 

The first dull light of morning began to 



14 



steal in and to reveal the change a single 
night had wrought in our dear child. The 
doctor still remained, and now and then 
took him from our arms, and himself car- 
ried him up and down the nursery, remark- 
ing that it was a wonder and a mercy that 
Eddy did not go into fits. As soon as it 
became light we sent for Miss Deborah, 
who was our ever-faithful friend in the 
time of trouble ; his aunt Mary came 
from her room, and shortly after his grand- 
mother Prentiss from hers. On looking at 
Eddy she burst into tears, and asked me if 
I felt willing to give him up. The doctor 
said there was nothing to be done, and left 
us ; and with breaking hearts we knelt 
around our apparently dying child, who 
now lay exhausted in Miss Deborah's lap, 
while his father, as well as tears would let 
him, commended his spirit to God. The 
laborious respiration of the dear little one 
now filled the room ; the intervals between 
being so long, that again and again I held 



* 15 * 

my own breath, thinking he had gone. 
The doctor came in again, before long, and 
as Eddy now lay in my arms, I thought 
again that he had dropped away ; but pres- 
ently there came another long, weary breath 
to assure me he still lived. The third time 
the doctor came he brought a mixture of 
chloroform, camphor, etc., and said if the 
child were his own he would try this as a 
last resort. We made no objection to his 
giving it to Eddy ; for myself, I did not 
believe anything could now save my pre- 
cious baby, and had given him to God so 
unreservedly that I was not conscious of 
even a wish for his life. 

Soon after the administration of a few 
drops of the mixture, however, Eddy fell 
asleep, and slept about five minutes, when 
his little cousins, who were all at play in 
the garden, unconscious of his situation, 
burst into loud shouts of laughter, which 
aroused him at once. But even this little 
repose refreshed him. He had had no 



* 16 ^ 

sleep for a great number of hours ; I think 
more than sixty. The doctor, on his next 
visit, expressed great satisfaction with this 
improvement ; continued the chloroform, 
and in the course of the day, Eddy had sev- 
eral of these little naps, which did him good. 
As the day declined our hopes rose. On 
making his seventh visit in the evening, the 
doctor absolutely forbid my taking any 
more care of Eddy at night ; and we left 
him in the kind hands of watchers, as he 
was so nearly unconscious as not to per. 
ceive that strangers ministered to him in his 
mother's place. Our chief ground of hope 
for many succeeding, anxious days, was the 
mere fact that he lived. We were obliged 
to give nourishment with the utmost cau- 
tion, and to keep bottles of hot water at 
his feet, and to warm his little cold hands 
in our own. He now lay in the swinging 
cot, of which he had been so fond, and 
slept a good deal. When, at last, we saw 
evident tokens of returning health and 



* 17 

strength, we felt that we received him a 
second time as from the grave. To me, he 
never seemed the same child. My darling 
Eddy was lost to me, and another, and yet 
the same, filled his place. I often said after- 
wards, that a little stranger was running 
about my nursery; not mine, but God's. 
Indeed I can not describe the peculiar feel- 
ing with which I always regarded him after 
this sickness, nor how the thought con- 
stantly met me, ' He is not mine ; he is 
God's.' Every night I used to thank God 
for sparing him to me one day longer, thus 
truly enjoying him a day at a time. 



II, 



A Year old — The Cloud changed into 
Sunshine. 



Now let me lay the pearl away, 
That on my breast I've worn all day; 
How sweet, how soft the casket fair, 
Where hides all night my jewel rare. 

My snow-white lamb, thy gambols o'er, 
Thy sportive limbs must sport no more ; 
Now to thy rest, let slumber creep 
With gentle tread to bid thee sleep. 

My winsome one ! my heart's delight ! 
I give thee to the arms of night ; 
Oh, darksome night ! with soft caress 
My darling little baby bless. 

My heart's delight ! my pearl, my lamb ! 

How rich, how blest, how glad I am ! 

In sweetest sleep I see thee lie ; 

Good-bye, good-night ! good-night, good-bye ! 



II. 



HAD kept a little journal about A., 
■*- and her father now wished me to begin 
Eddy's. On his birthday he went out td 
procure a book for this purpose. This is 
the first record : 

October 22, 1849. — Our dear little Eddy is 
a year old to-day, and his papa has been 
out to buy this book for him. If he lives, 
it will be a gratification to him years hence; 
if he is taken from us, it will be of great 
comfort to us in our sorrow. 

It has pleased God to make him a very 
great sufferer during most of his short life, 
and twice in the course of the year we have 
believed him at the point of death. He has 
been restored to us, we know not for what 
purpose ; and while we thank God for this 
great mercy, we pray that it may prove a 

(21) 



T 22 T 

mercy indeed, and that we may see him 
grow up a "perfect man in Christ Jesus." 

He is considered by many a beautiful 
boy; he has a very fine forehead, bright 
black eyes, and an uncommonly intelligent, 
sunshiny smile. He has been put back by 
his sickness, so that he is but just begin- 
ning to be interested in trying to sit alone 
in a little chair, and to get about, by the 
help of the furniture, upon his feet. But for 
this last sickness, he would undoubtedly have 
walked by this time, as previously he was 
always on his feet. We fancied he could 
say "Eddy" before his illness; for instance, 
if he dropped a toy, he would keep saying, 
"Eddy, Eddy!" till we returned it to him. 
But he never says so now. He tries very 
hard to say " kitty," and whenever he sees 
her coming cries, " Taty ! Taty ! " and 
laughs and shouts and throws his little 
body into all sorts of shapes. He began to 
shake his hand as good-bye some months 
ago, and is a famous kisser. In this respect, 
as in many others, he is unlike A. He 



23 

thinks everything she does is cunning ; and 
shouts for joy when she comes into the 
nursery, and when his eye first falls upon 
her, as he awakes from a nap. He keeps 
kissing her whether she likes it or not, and 
really hurts her by his vivacious greetings. 
His aunt Tibby taught him all he as yet 
knows. She has gone, and he misses her 
sadly. He has four teeth, wears high-necked, 
long-sleeved dresses, and though he still 
looks like a child who has suffered, and is 
delicate, no one could mistake him for a girl, 
he is so decidedly a boy in every feature and 
motion. 

As his aunt Tibby had gone on another 
errand of love and mercy, to Portland, the 
whole care of Eddy was thrown upon me ; 
and my health, already miserable, soon 
gave way. I could get very little sleep, he 
was so restless; he had parted with his 
old enemy, the colic, during his last illness ; 
but teeth were now coming, and they kept 
him wakeful, though he did not appear to^ 



24 

suffer much with them. I used to think I 
was out of bed with him fifty times a 
night. We began to think seriously of 
procuring a nurse for him. We had often 
talked of it, but I could not bear to give 
him up to a stranger, and we put it off 
from day to day till I was in such a state 
from loss of sleep, that I feared I should 
lose my senses. One evening, when I was 
sick in bed, his father went out and en- 
gaged Margaret, of whom we had heard ex- 
cellent accounts, to come that very night. 

This was the sixth of December, and 
without much difficulty she succeeded in 
attaching the dear child to her, and from 
that night until his last sickness, with the 
exception of one or two necessary inter- 
ruptions, he slept with her, and took his 
food from her hands. He soon began to 
sleep with his little arms around her neck, 
and to repay her with his affection for the 
many sleepless hours he cost her. His 
uncle Henry and aunt Tibbv came on 



25 

the same night with his nurse, and his un- 
cle said he would not go to California until 
he had seen Eddy walk. He was on his 
feet most of the time, and seemed to be 
restrained from running alone merely by 
timidity. With a little encouragement, 
therefore^ from his uncle, he learned to 
walk very well. This is the next record of 
the journal : 

January 5, 1850. — Eddy is now fourteen 
months old, has six teeth, and walks well, 
but with timidity. He is at times really 
beautiful. He is very affectionate, and will 
run to meet me, throw his little arms round 
my neck, and keep pat, pat, patting me, 
with delight. He tries to talk, but says 
nothing distinctly. Miss Arnold sent him, 
at New Year's, a beautiful ball, with which 
he is highly pleased. He rolls it about by 
knocking it with a stick, and will shout for 
joy when he sees it moving. Mrs. Allen 
sent him a rattle and another toy. He is 
xrazy to give everybody something, and 



26 



when he is brought down to prayers, hur- 
ries to get the Bible for his father ; his lit- 
tle face all smiles and exultation, and his 
body in a quiver with emotion. He is like 
lightning in all his movements, and is never 
still for an instant. Except that his teeth 
trouble him, he is now pretty well, and it is 
worth a good deal to see his face, it is so 
brimful of life and sunshine and gladness. 

January 22d. — Eddy is fifteen months to- 
day. He has eight teeth, his hair begins to 
curl, and his face is full of smiles. He says 
"There 'tis," quite plainly, and tries to say 
" baby." He is very cunning and interest- 
ing ; will tell what the cow says, and call 
the cat. He and Annie play horse, as he 
wants to be in motion perpetually. He 
takes down the hearth-brush and tries to 
push up the latch of the nursery door, in 
order to get down-stairs, and will trot across 
the room with the poker, in order to drive 
his ball from under the sofa. 

March 22a*. — Eddy is seventeen months old 

*5* ■ *h 



2/ 

He keeps us all laughing as we watch his 
funny little capers. While Annie was sick, 
he would come in and punch her with a 
stick thrust through the bars of the crib, in 
order to make her get up and play with 
him, and if I was not careful, would hurt 
her head. After she got able to sit up, he 
did not know what to make of it, and would 
try to pull her from my lap, making signs 
to have her put into her crib. He now calls 
her "Addie," and his nurse "Mardet," and 
says a number of words. Whatever A. does, 
he does, and he is all stir and noise and 
life and smiles; fat, and as well as one could 
expect him to be, while he has four big teeth 
swelling his gums to the size of walnuts. He 
is a dear little boy to us. 

April 2 2d. — All his first four double teeth 
have pricked through, and he is feeling 
rather unwell, and looks pale and somewhat 
thin. He has begun, however, to walk out, 
and enjoys it with all his heart. He does 
not say as many words as A. did at his 
age, but has quite a number — " baby — kitty, A 



pretty," etc. He wears the sack and hat 
A. has worn all winter, and his foot is 
larger than hers, so she has his cast-off 
shoes and stockings. He is very affection- 
ate still, and when I go into the nursery 
runs to throw his arms round my neck, and 
will hang on me, with his little soft face 
pressing closer and closer to mine, as long 
as I will let him! 

Early in June, with the hope of improv- 
ing my health, I went with A. to New- 
ark. As it was necessary for me to stay 
longer than I intended, and they, as well 
as myself, all longed to see Eddy, we per- 
suaded his father to come on with him and 
his nurse. He stayed two weeks and then 
returned, taking both the children, hoping 
by this means to give me a better opportu- 
nity to recover my strength. During my 
continued absence from home, his father 
wrote of Eddy: "He is finely this morn- 
ing ; it would have done your heart good 
to hear him laagh and scream while M. 



was at breakfast ; running and riding on 
my back. How I love the little fellow ! " 
and again : " He makes great dependence 
on spending M.'s meal-times with me ; is 
very affectionate, and we have grand sport 
running from parlor to study, throwing 
beans at each other, and making believe 
eat the wall, at which he fairly beats me. 
When I ask him for mamma and Annie, 
he makes great ado, and points vehemently 
to the front door." 

During their visit to Newark, the chil- 
dren took the whooping cough, and on 
hearing that this was the case I hastened 
home. Eddy had it very lightly and only 
whooped once. But as long as it lasted, 
he was rather feeble, and required much 
care and attention. When we removed to 
Newark, in October, he was looking deli- 
cate in consequence of his cough, but soon 
began to recruit, and shortly became, as 
we thought, the very picture of health. 
He never had had so brilliant a color in his 



3o 

life, as during this winter, and he was in 
such fine spirits and enjoyed everything sc 
much, that he was like sunshine wherever 
he went. Every night he and A. were 
brought to the parlor, and their father had 
a little frolic with them. Eddy enjoyed 
this wonderfully ; and his shouts of mer- 
riment still ring in my ears. Whatever he 
enjoyed, he enjoyed very heartily. His 
nurse was sick for three weeks in the early 
part of this winter, and he then came to 
the table with us, and used to take his 
walks out with A. and myself. During 
these walks he was fur! of pretty little talk, 
not one word of which can I now recall. 
But there is one record in the journal, for 
this winter. 

January \ 1851. — Eddy is a dear little boy, 
very gentle, very loving, and at times, beau- 
tiful. He is learning to talk very fast ; and 
says such little sentences as these : " My man 
sick." " I see Annie." " My man up 'tairs." 
" Annie gone away," etc. He has invented 



3i 

names for his favorite toys ; his ninepins 
are " ni-men-ees "; his houses, "shootoos," 
and his night-dress is a "dan-down." He 
loves to hug and kiss, and when he is well 
is very sweet and pleasant and docile. He 
has had two little conflicts with me, in 
which I have, with ease, come off conqueror, 
and I think has but little self-will. He is 
neat and orderly, and won't go to bed till 
he has picked up and put away all his play- 
things. 

Books and ninepins are his idols. There 
is one trait in his character which I ought 
to mention. A year ago, when he and A. 
had their suppers in the nursery, he would 
not taste his own, until he had fixed a cush- 
ion for her to sit upon, and seen her lifted 
into her chair. Ever since he could put two 
words together, no matter what he had 
given him, he always says, "An-nie, too"; 
and often won't taste a morsel till he sees 
her provided also. He will save a part of 
what he has given him in her absence, until 
he sees her again, when he will run to give 



32 

it to her. The other day I came in with a 
little toy-horse for him ; and before he 
would touch it, he said : "Buy Annie one, 
too ! " And when he had drawn it across 
the room, he said, " Now, Annie drag it," 
with such infinite sweetness, that she could 
not help throwing her arms round him and 
kissing him. 

One day of this winter Miss E. M 

met him out walking with his nurse with a 
very disconsolate air ; and on inquiring 
what was the matter, he told her he wanted 
a " little boy-baby." She went home and 
made one for him, with which he was high- 
ly delighted. When she gave it to him he 
would not kiss her for it, but seemed shy 
and in a hurry to run to exhibit it to his 
nurse, but afterwards he repented, and 
said : " I wish Mit Miller would turn again, 
so I could kiss her." He gave his baby 
the name of " Charley," and it was the last 
toy he ever noticed. 

His father used to tell him that by and 



33 

by he should have all his books, and would 
take perfect delight in asking him, " Who's 
going to have papa's books?" and hearing 
him say in the prettiest manner, " / am ; 
but I shall give A nnie some " — which was 
the invariable addition. He was the most 
unselfish child I ever saw. 

Early in May he had the measles, but so 
lightly that I did not think it worth while 
to ask the doctor to see him. Annie had 
been quite sick with them, and I knew just 
what to do. He was more fretful than was 
usual with him in sickness, and both he 
and A. got well rather slowly, owing, I 
thought, to our removal to New York, dur- 
ing which we had to turn them off a good 
deal. Eddy was so regular in his habits, 
and had such an aversion to confusion and 
disorder, that all the process of moving 
and getting to rights, annoyed him ; and 
when we came to this house, said repeat- 
edly : " I don't like this house at all ! " 
But as soon as we subsided into a quiet 



34 

and regular life, he became very happy, 
and enjoyed greatly his large, airy nursery. 

In June we procured a waitress, whose 
name was Margaret, on which by way of 
distinguishing them, he began to address 
his nurse as " my Marget." He took no 
fancy to this new Maggy, but felt it his 
duty to pray for her from the night of her 
arrival until he could pray no longer. 
" God bless Marget," he had been in the 
habit of saying ; but now it was " God 
bless two Margets." His little cousin An- 
nie P. visited us after this ; he became very 
fond of her, and prayed for her with his 
sister: " God bless two Annies." As long 
as she stayed with us he called our Annie 
" my Annie," and it sounded so prettily 
to hear him say, " My Annie, will you tome 
play with me?" " My Annie ! I will dive 
you half my blocks." 

One day in the season of strawberries, we 
had some on the dinner-table, and A. had 
her share of them. As we were leaving 



35 

the table, her father selected and offered 
to her a large one, and merely to try her, 
I said : " Don't you want papa to eat that 
himself?" She is far from being a selfish 
child ; but until this year, we had never 
allowed her to eat fruit. She hesitated ; 
on which her father said : " You want 
papa to eat it, don't you?" She smiled, 
but still hesitated, and after amusing our- 
selves a little about it, we let her eat it 
herself. I then proposed to make an ex- 
periment of like nature on Eddy. We 
were not in the habit of giving him fruit, 
but he was as fond of it as other children, 
and the beautiful red strawberry always at- 
tracted his eyes. His father selected three 
very fine ones, and we proceeded to the 
nursery. I called him to see what we had 
brought for him, and put a large pin 
into his hand, telling him to eat them. He 
was highly pleased, put his pin into the 
largest, and was just conveying it to his 
mouth, when I said : " Don't you want to 



36 

give that nice large one to dear papa?" 
With his bright, quick smile, he instantly 
ran and held it to his papa's lips. And we 
had some difficulty in convincing him that 
his father had already eaten enough, down- 
stairs. He then devoured it himself, with 
great gusto, but offered the second to me ; 
on my refusing over and over again to take 
it, he ran to his nurse and urged it upon 
her, and on her positive and repeated re- 
fusal to accept it, ate that also. " Now," 
said he, taking up the last one, " I want 
Annie to have this one." And she could 
hardly induce him not to force it into her 
mouth. 



III. 

Sunshine still— Baby Talk and Ways— Shadows 
of coming Trouble. 



* 



To sleep, to sleep, my baby dear, 
Mamma is nigh thee, do not fear ; 
Close those bright eyes, and lay away 
Those dainty limbs, so glad all day. 

Hush ! do not cry, 

But listen to my lullaby. 

No bird had e'er so sweet a nest, 
In which to hide away and rest ; 
Now nestle in it soft and warm, 
Nothing shall come to do thee harm. 

Hush ! do not cry, 

But listen to my lullaby. 

Thou sweetest one ! thou darling child ! 
Thou blossom fair and undefiled ! 
Our household joy ! our sunbeam bright 1 
Love shall thy cradle be all night. 

Hush ! do not cry, 

But listen to my lullaby. 



38 



N 



III. 

OW follows the last record I made in 
his journal. 



July, 1851. — Eddy is now two years and 
nine months old. He is quite large, and has 
grown almost too fast during the last month. 
As to talking, he now keeps up a perfect 
chatter ; and I can see indications of humor, 
which in so young a child are amusing 
enough. He is as precise and orderly as 
ever, but is growing more and more rogu- 
ish, and takes a real boy's delight in 
teasing Annie. He will keep kissing the 
back of her neck when she is busy and 
doesn't want to be disturbed ; or will touch 
her with one finger and then run off and 
hide, laughing all the way. 

Last Sunday I was holding him at the 
window to keep him from falling out, as he 
was eager to see people returning from 
^ <39) ^ 



40 

church ; and he kept saying things to 
make them look up and laugh, until I was 
ashamed to be seen. One sentence poured 
out after another, as fast as his tongue 
could fly. " Oh, do see those two /olored 
women ! Their faces are black and dirty ! " 
" Oh, do see that little dear Airly-head ! " 
" You gemplen ! there is a happy land in 
eternity!" "What's that lady ^ot in her 
hand ? A doll ! no, a live baby ! " and so 
on, with a dozen speeches I can't remember, 
the fun of which was in the manner rather 
than in the matter. He is as restless as he 
well can be ; there is no holding him in 
one's lap, as a pet, or telling of stories, or 
singing ; if you sing one thing he calls for 
something else till you yield the field. 
When he has been naughty, he does not 
scream and kick, but stands still till he recov- 
ers his good humor. It takes a good deal to 
vex him, but very little to wound his feel- 
ings. A sharp word grieves him exceed- 
ingly, and calls forth a shower of silent 
tears. 



4 I 

On the 2 1st of this month we all went 

to Rockaway to visit Mr. and Mrs. B 

We had moved' about so much of late that 
Eddy seemed to think we were now about 
taking final leave of New York, for on 
reaching the hotel at Jamaica, where we 
were obliged to spend the night, he said : 
" This is our home." He enjoyed this 
visit at Rockaway very much, pronouncing 
the sand on the shore " clean dirt," and 
taking great delight in playing with it. 
We had him bathed twice ; he did not like 
it at all, and when he saw his nurse after- 
wards go into the water, he cried till she 
came out again. He said they were going 
to drown her, and received her, on her re- 
turn to the shore, with every demonstra- 
tion of relief and satisfaction. He was as 
brown as a nut when we returned home. 

On the 1st of August his father left 
home, intending to be absent five or six 
weeks. As the children stood at the win- 
dow, seeing him off, I was amused at their 



42 

characteristic remarks. A. said, " Papa 
will never come back again. I am afraid 
we shall never see him any more." " Oh, 
yes, he will," returned Eddy ; " he will 
come* back, certainly." And during his 
papa's whole absence, his frequent, " Oh, I 
don't like to have papa gone ! " "I wish 
papa would not stay so long ! " was inva- 
riably followed with, " But he will come 
home soon." He begged all summer to be 
allowed to go to church, but I was afraid 
he would not sit still ; one Sunday, how- 
ever, he coaxed so prettily, that I consented 
to let him go and sit with his nurse in the 
gallery, whence he could be removed, 
should he begin to disturb the congrega- 
tion. He was so elated by this permission, 
that I could hardly make him listen while 
I charged him to be a good boy. As I was 
putting on his sack, I said to M. that if he 
fell asleep, I wished her to take it off. 
" Ho ! " said he, " I sha'n't go to sleep ! 
Christ don't have rocking-chairs in His 



43 

house ! " In this vivacious state he set off, 
followed by our loving eyes till he was out 
of sight. Soon after service commenced, 
I heard him laugh loud and begin to play 
with a parasol ; M. then took him out. He 
was very sorry he had behaved so, and 
often said he would not do so again if I 
would try him once more. 

About this time I got for him a pair of 
little white pantaloons, and made a French 
shirt to wear with them. He was delight- 
ed, and said, " Now I am a little gentle- 
man"; and was so pleased that I let him 
lay aside his frocks sooner than I had in- 
tended. His father was pleased too, on 
his return from his journey, to find his lit- 
tle boy in boy's garments, and made him 
run up and down that he might see how 
cunning he looked. I was about going to 
Newark when this change was made in his 
dress, and Eddy asked if he might go too, 
and let his grandmother see his pantaloons, 
especially the pockets. This was on the 



44 

nth of August. He spent the day very 
happily with his little cousins, and I was 
glad I had consented to his going. 

I stayed until the next Saturday with 
A., when she became quite unwell, and I 
returned with her. Eddy was grieved to 
see her sick, and wanted to hang round 
and kiss her continually, and often said : 
" Mamma, why don't you say something 
to my Annie?" as if he thought I might 
comfort her with loving words. About 
this time he said to me, " Mamma, if I die 
you must put me out in the 'treet." I 
asked why? He was lying in bed, and 
looked up to the wall, as he answered : 
" Christ wouldn't like to have to break 
through that wall to get me." At another 
time, as he sat at his little table, he said, as 
if to himself, " When I go to heaven, I 
shall take hold of mamma's hand." He 
•now began to enjoy hearing Bible stories, 
and particularly about the man to whom 
Christ gave eyes, and the restoration of the 



45 

withered hand. He had tried for a year 
nearly, to learn hymns, and would say : 
"Tinkle, tinkle, little 'tar"; and " Fusser 
little children to turn unto me " — with in- 
describable sweetness. 

His aunt Mary from New Orleans came 
to visit us, with her children, in Septem- 
ber. On the 29th, we took them all to 
Barnum's Museum. I took Eddy under 
my own special care, and enjoyed his en- 
joyment of all he saw. He laughed very 
heartily at the " Happy Family," and his 
shouts of pleasure filled the room — but he 
could not be happy unless Annie were near. 
*' I want my Annie to see this ! " he would 
exclaim at every new object that attracted 
his eye. His father weighed all the chil- 
dren ; Eddy weighed 29 lbs. 

His uncle Charles was here during most 
of August and September, and played 
with him a good deal, carrying him on his 
shoulders and lifting him up to touch the 
wall. When he went back to Portland 



'■* 



* 46 v 

Eddy cried, but soon consoled himself in 
his usual style. " But he will come back 
soon." He missed his aunt and little 
cousins, too, and prayed for them every 
night ; particularly for Una, who had played 
with him a good deal. 

On the 1 8th of October Mrs. Randall 
and her sister, Miss Deborah S., old and 
dear New Bedford friends, came. During 
their visit, he appeared well and bright, and 
they often spoke of his being such a happy 
child, and of his amusing himself so much, 
and making so little trouble. He used at 
this time to run round to kiss us all, as soon 
as family prayers were over, with such a sun- 
shiny face. Before they left us, early in No- 
vember, I observed one morning at prayers 
that he looked pale, and spoke of it. I felt 
more uneasy than seemed rational. He 
was getting two teeth, however, and I con- 
cluded they were the occasion of his look- 
ing ill. But he never appeared well to me 
again. His complexion changed, he had 



47 

quite a bad cough, and began to be nerv- 
ous and irritable. I was exceedingly dis- 
appointed. His uncles Henry and George 
arrived on the 6th of November from Cali- 
fornia, and I had thought so much of the 
pleasure they would take in him, and he in 
them ! But he was shy, and avoided them 
all he could, and generally was not willing 
they should even kiss him. 

About the middle of the month I sent 
for the doctor. He said there appeared to 
be some gastric derangement, prescribed 
for him, and at the end of a week he 
seemed better ; but he was very nervous, 
and did not act like himself. I spoke of 
this to the doctor, who said he perhaps 
needed to return to a more generous diet, 
and that we had better begin to give him 
meat once a day — especially chicken, per- 
haps oysters. I sent out instantly for a 
few oysters, as it was too late in the day 
to cook chicken, and he enjoyed them. 
He always called them " little birds." The 

c . 

— ► 



* 48 * 

next day I gave him a bit of chicken, which 
he also enjoyed, and made arrangements for 
him to have chicken-broth every day for a 
week. I had promised to spend Thanks- 
giving at Williamstown if he were well 
enough to make it safe for me to leave him. 
His uncles did not wish to go without me, 
and thought Eddy did not need me at all, 
as he was playing about as usual and out 
of the doctor's hands. I never left home 
so reluctantly, however. I felt extreme 
uneasiness about Eddy; more than I could 
account for. 

We left at 5 P.M., November 25, and 
returned in just a week from that night. 
Eddy was awake when I hastened into the 
nursery to see him, though it was mid- 
night, and sitting up in bed. He seemed 
glad to see me again, and gave me one of 
his sweetest smiles of welcome. On seeing 
him next morning, however, I was disap- 
pointed. He did not appear to have gain- 
ed anything during my absence, though his 



* 49 * 

nurse said his appetite had been good, and 
that he had enjoyed his little Thanksgiving 
dinner very much. I thought he would 
perhaps recover his strength as soon as he 
could begin regularly to take the air, and 
had him taken down-stairs that morning, 
directing M. to allow him, with certain re- 
strictions, to return to his usual diet. 

I was very unwell myself at this time, 
and when lying on the couch in the nur- 
sery had leisure to watch him as he played 
about the room. He struck me as much 
changed. In a few minutes he would get 
tired of his toys, and sigh, as if fatigued ; 
now and then he would come and climb 
upon the couch and lie by my side, on my 
arm, with one little hand and arm thrown 
over my neck. This was not natural in a 
child so full of vivacity as he had been ; 
and as I thus lay with him like an infant 
in my embrace, tears often filled my eyes. 
If he observed it, he would draw closer, pat 
my face with his hand, and say, " Poor 



5 o 

mamma ! dear mamma ! " over and over 
again. More than once I observed him to 
laugh and cry at once in a hysterical manner, 
very painful to witness. He would now only 
sit in just such a chair, and get into bed 
just so, and have his little table just so. 
One day some food was brought up for 
A. on a dining-room plate. On seeing it, 
he said, "/don't eat off such a nice plate, 
at all." I told him he should do so if he 
wished. He said, " Is there a lady on that 
plate ? " and on my telling him there was 
not, he said, " I can't eat unless there is a 
lady on my plate." There was a picture 
of one on the kitchen plates. 

On the 19th of December the Rev. Mr. 

P was here. On hearing of it, Eddy said 

he wanted to see him. As he took now so 
little interest in anything that would cost 
him an effort, I was surprised, but told 
Annie to lead him down to the parlor. On 
reaching it, they found Mr. P. was not there, 
and they then went up to the study. I 



5i 

heard their father's joyous greeting as he 
opened his door for them, and how he 
welcomed Eddy, in particular, with a per- 
fect shower of kisses and caresses. This 
was the last time the dear child's own feet 
ever took him there ; but his father after- 
wards frequently carried him up in his 
arms and amused him with pictures, espec- 
ially with what Eddy called the " bear 
books." 

Thinking our late dinners not proper 
for him in his now feeble state, I had one 
prepared for him at twelve, and he en- 
joyed this change. At times he would be 
as bright and playful as ever. When I 
played with A. and himself, for instance, 
he would run and laugh and shout as he 
used to do — the difference being that he 
now soon flagged as if fatigued. His 
nervousness and irritability increased from 
day to day, and he wanted to be amused 
instead of amusing himself, and to sit a 
great deal in M.'s or my own lap. One 



* 5 2 * 

■ 
morning Ellen told him she was going to 

make a little pie for his dinner, but on his 
next appearance in the kitchen told him 
she had let it burn all up in the oven, and 
that she felt dreadfully about it. " Never 
mind, Ellie," said he, " mamma does not 
like to have me eat pie ; but when I get 
well I shall have as many as I want." 

One day in the early autumn I said, 
by way of amusing the children, that I 
thought God would send us a little baby 
by and by. They were even more de- 
lighted than I expected ; and A., looking 
up, said, " I shall be all the time looking 
up till I see it come flying down from 
heaven." Eddy looked up, and said, "/ 
shall too." " Oh, you are such a little boy, 
you don't even know which way to look 
towards heaven," said A., who fancied his 
eyes turned in a wrong direction. After 
this, I do not think a day passed in which 
some allusion was not made to this longed- 
for baby. No matter how fretful and 



* 53 * 

unwell he might be, it invariably would 
bring a happy smile to his face, if I said 
to him, " When my little baby comes, you 
shall take it in your arms." I made use 
of this idea to divert him when he was 
restless. 

Once, when talking about it, he asked 
me some question, I forget what, which 
made me take him up in my lap and tell 
him something about his own suffering 
babyhood. " Where was my Marget 
then ? " he asked. I told him she had 
not come here, but was taking care of 
another baby. " Well," said he, with that 
expression of humor about the mouth 
which had so often amused me, " I was 
tying for her all that time — that was what 
I was tying for ! " Again he came to 
me, and said, with this same expression, 
"What /olor are my eyes?" He knew 
perfectly well, as he did the color of every- 
thing. I smiled, and said, " Why, you little 
rogue, you know they are black." "Well, 



54 

I hope my little brother-boy's eyes will be 
black, then ; I want him to look just like 
me." 

Sometimes he would leave his play and 
run to M., and say, " We must be very 
good to that little baby when it comes. 
If we are not kind to it, God will take it 
right back to heaven again "; or, " I shall 
give my little brother all my toys." Once, 
on hearing this, I asked if he would give it 
his nine-pins, this being his favorite toy. 
After a moment's reflection, he said, " Yes, 
and all my blocks too." He was very fond 
of his nurse, and would hardly allow her 
to leave the room or go anywhere without 
him, but often said, with great cheerful- 
ness, " When my little brother comes, / 
will sleep with Annie and let him sleep with 
Marget "; and " When we take our journey 
next summer papa will carry Annie, mam- 
ma will carry me, and I will let my Marget 
carry the baby." Although we never spoke 
of the baby as a boy, he always insisted 



* 55 



on its being a " brother-boy " ; and one 
day, as if to explain this, said to his nurse : 
" Marget, little dirls like little dirls best ; 
but little boys like little boys best." 

I said to M. one day that I was glad I 
had put Eddy into boy's clothes, as I 
should want his frocks, etc., for the baby, 
not supposing he observed what I said. 
Shortly afterwards, however, on seeing her 
change her dress on her return from church 
on Sunday, he asked her why she changed 
it ; and on her replying, "To save it," he 
said, " Oh, I suppose you are saving it for 
your little sister," and added that he was sav- 
ing all his for his little brother. Owing to 
his playing about less, I could now interest 
him with stories to more advantage than 
ever before. He wanted to hear about 
" the little fly that hadn't any breakfast," 
over and over and over again. I also read 
to him from various little books such stories 
as he could understand. 



* 



IV. 



Christmas — Faint Sunbeams amid thickening 
Shadows — In Doubt and Perplexity. 



So be it ; 'tis Thy plan, not mine, 
And being Thine, is good ; 

My God, my will shall yield to Thine 
Ere it is understood. 



IV. 

WAS much interested in preparing for 
■*• Christmas, and promised myself great 
pleasure in seeing the children hang up 
their little stockings. They talked about 
it a good deal, and not realizing that it was 
the state of his health which made Eddy 
appear tired of all his toys, I flattered my- 
self that he would enjoy some new ones 
still more. I said to their father that I 
wanted to make this Christmas a very 
happy day to the children, and that we 
might not all be together on the next. 
On the 24th Mr. Stearns and Anna were 
here. I was out with Anna much of the 
day. On my return, Eddy came to me 
with a little flag which his uncle had given 
him ; and after they had left us, he ran up 
and down with it ; and as my eyes follow- 
to) 



6o 

ed him, I thought he looked happier and 

brighter, and more like himself than I had 

seen him for a long time. He kept saying, 

" Mr. Stearns gave me this flag ! " and then 

would correct himself, and say, " I mean 

my uncle Stearns." A dear friend had 

sent the children some grapes ; I asked 

Eddy if he wanted one, and told him to 

help himself, as they lay within his reach. 

Presently I asked him if he would like 

another, and he said no. As he was very 

fond of them, I was surprised at this, and 

asked why not ? He said he had had one. 

I told him he might have another, and 

welcome, on which he said he was afraid 

it would hurt him, and that he would wait 

till he got well. I saw that he longed for 

more, notwithstanding, and took him on 

my lap and gave him several, when, as 

usual, he returned the seeds and skins. A 

few days before, an apple was offered me, 

which I declined, saying I was afraid it 

would make Eddy want it, to see me eat 
4. * 



T 6l T 

it. He was then on my lap. " Oh, I don't 
want any," said he, " because it might 
make me sick ; but when I get well I shall 
have a whole basket full." 

While M. was out of the room towards 
night, he brought his flag to me and 
climbed into my lap with it, saying, with 
great animation, " Mamma ! when your 
little baby sees this flag, it will dance for 
joy ! " M. then came and lighted a lamp ; 
I was busy, at his request, in rolling up the 
flag to be put away for the night, and did 
not observe what he was doing until I 
heard him cry out that the light hurt his 
«yes. Knowing but too well what this cry 
might indicate, I looked at him anxiously, 
and asked if his head ached. He said it 
did not, but that M. was a " naughty d\x\ " 
to let the light shine in his eyes and make 
them ache. 

For some time, I think for weeks, his 
sleep had been restless and disturbed. He 
would grind his teeth, scream, moan, and 



62 

talk, from the time he fell asleep until after 
midnight, when he would be more quiet. 
I used to dread his bedtime on this ac- 
count ; it was distressing to see such signs 
of suffering. His nurse was so sure he had 
worms, and said so often that she had seen 
children suffering with them, give just such 
tokens of their presence, that I had allowed 
myself to be somewhat relieved on this 
point ; but only by fits and starts, as it 
were. On this night he hung up his bag 
for his presents, and after going to bed, 
surveyed it with a chuckle of pleasure pe- 
culiar to him, and finally fell asleep in this 
happy mood. I took great delight in ar- 
ranging his and A.'s presents, and getting 
them safely into the bags. He enjoyed 
Christmas as much as I had reason to ex- 
pect he would, in his state of health, and 
was busy among his new playthings all day. 
Miss Bleecker sent him a toy which grati- 
fied him extremely. I enjoyed this day my- 
self ; it was the first on which I had had two 



* 63 * 

children old enough to enjoy a little festi- 
val, and Eddy was brighter and better than 
usual. 

After going to bed that night and re- 
peating his prayer, he said to his nurse, " I 
don't want to be died, but I want to be a 
little angel without being died." I was 
pleased to hear him say this in his sweet, 
clear voice; but as soon as he fell asleep he 
began to moan and throw himself about as 
usual, and seemed to think some one was 
getting his toys away. I feared he had eat- 
en too much candy, as he had had a variety 
in his bag. On asking his nurse, however, 
she said she had put most of it aside, at 
his request, and showed me that very little 
had been eaten. I felt of his head and 
hands, as I always did the last thing before 
going to bed, but observed only a very 
slight degree of unnatural heat in either ; 
still, in contrast with A.'s, they were too 
dry and warm. 

The next morning Miss Bleecker sent for 



6 4 

the children to come in there for a few 
hours ; Annie went, and his nurse soon 
after took Eddy in, but he was languid 
and uninterested, and soon asked to be 
brought home. On his return, feeling very 
anxious about him, I took him up and be- 
gan rocking and singing to him, and he 
soon fell asleep. The rest of the day one 
cheek was red and the other pale, and I 
observed this to be the case repeatedly 
afterwards. He had had for some time 
little feverish turns, but they were so slight 
as hardly to be noticeable, nor did they 
last more than fifteen minutes at any one 
time. Still, they restrained me from giving 
him tonics, as I should otherwise have done. 
He began this week to be disturbed by 
noise, and said once, as he lay in my 
arms, " Oh, I wish the boys in the street 
wouldn't make so much noise ! " and again, 
"The boys in the street make more noise 
than they used to." 
- On the 29th Mrs. Washburn came in to A 



* 65 * 

invite us to take tea with her. Eddy was 
going down-stairs as she came in, and she 
stopped and spoke with him. In the even- 
ing she told me she had seen him, and 
thought him a dear little fellow. I replied 
that he was not looking like himself, and 
that I was feeling anxious about him. This 
was a very mild day, and he asked if he 
might ride out. Thinking the air would 
refresh him, I directed M. to take him in 
an omnibus to the foot of Cortlandt street, 
and promised him, if this did not fatigue 
him too much, he should go every day to 
ride. I should not have allowed him to 
go had I known the state his poor little 
head was in ; but as he always declared it 
did not ache, I had allowed my fears con- 
cerning it to slumber for a season. He 
enjoyed his ride down, but on reaching the 
ferry said that was the way to grandma's, 
and urged M. to let him go to Newark to 
see her. On her telling him she could not 
without mamma's leave, he said no more, 



66 



but laid his head on her shoulder, and did 
not lift it again until they reached home. 
He fell asleep then, and I reproached my- 
self with having sent him so far, and it 
seems now as if I might have known the 
fatal disease which was fastening itself 
upon him. But I must remember that 
most of " his symptoms needed the event 
to interpret them." 

The next day I was out a good deal on 
business. As I was dressing to go, Eddy 
asked if he might go with me, and seemed 
unusually disappointed when I told him 
I was going too far for his strength. I 
told M. she might take him a short dis- 
tance ; she did so, and they went as far 
as the corner of the Bowery and Fourth 
street. Even this little walk fatigued him, 
so that she brought him home in her arms. 
He had taken his last walk on earth, and 
never went out again until he left this 
weary, weary world for that in which the 
weary are at rest. Towards night A. cried 



*■ 67 v 

a little about a book I had taken from her 
It worried and grieved him, and he came 
and stood by my side in an inconvenient 
position to himself, as he stood on tiptoe 
to throw one arm around my neck. . 

I then took him in my arms and carried 
him down into the parlor, where I sat 
down with him on the rug, and asked him 
if he did not think that bright fire beauti- 
ful. I wished to ascertain the effect of 
light on his eyes. He turned his head 
away, sighed, and said he did not. I then 
directed his attention to the solar lamp 
which had just been lighted. He said he 
did not like to look at it, that it made his 
eyes ache, and sighed again. Then looking 
up at the bright circle on the ceiling above 
the lamp, he said, " But I think that is 
pretty." He then sat quite silent and ab- 
stracted, with his head on my breast, and I 
missed that incessant little prattle which he 
always used to keep up if taken to any new 
place. 



* 68 * 

The next morning he was quite bright 
while taking his bath, and said, " How my 
uncle Henry would laugh to see me in my 
tub ! " He took the sponge, as usual, and 
wet his head with it. In the course of the 
day, as he lay in my arms, he asked me 
to "ride" him to see his uncles, cousin 
" Eddy Hocsins" [Hopkins], etc., remind- 
ing me of each one. I had lately amused 
him in this way as I sat rocking him gently 
in my lap, and it had gratified him not a 
little. He often asked when his uncle 
Henry would come ; and once when he did 
so, M. said, " Why, you wouldn't love him 
when he was here before." " I would 
now" he said. On this, as well as the 
preceding morning, we had taken him to 
the breakfast-table with us. I wished to 
take the entire care of his diet myself. 
Feeble as he was, he would not allow me 
to help him down-stairs, but went by him- 
self. He hardly tasted his food on either 
of these mornings, and seemed to be lost 
•*«in thought. >k 



69 

For a week or ten days past he had 
changed his seat at prayers from M.'s side 
to my own, and while his father read the 
Scripture he held my hand. On this 
morning he called M. to come and sit on 
his other side and hold his other hand. 
There was something very touching in his 
appearance as he thus sat ; his little figure, 
already wasted and languid, looked so 
helpless, as it were, so anxious for the 
support love even could not give it. He 
had taken a fancy within a few weeks to 
kneel with me at my chair, and would 
throw one little arm round my neck, while 
with the other hand he so prettily and 
seriously covered his eyes. As their heads 
touched my face as they thus knelt, I ob- 
served that Eddy's felt hot when compared 
with A.'s — just enough so to increase my 
uneasiness. 

On the afternoon of this day, which was 

the last of the year, Mrs. S sent over two 

little chairs for the children, with the mes-. 



sage that the arm-chair was for Eddy and 
the rocking-chair for A. Before the cover- 
ings were removed, Eddy said he should 
like the rocking-chair best. I then told 
A. how unwell he was, and asked her to 
let him have his choice. She consented at 
once, and on examination we found the 
arm-chair was too high for him and just 
right for her ; so both were suited. He 
was very much pleased with his, pointed 
out its peculiarities, rocked in it, and said 
he would now give his old one to " the 
baby." Towards night I proposed that 
these chairs should be placed in the parlor, 
as they would soon get injured if kept in 
the nursery. He objected a little at first, 
but soon went down with his himself, 
selected a place for it, and put it there 
with his own hands. 

He slept miserably this evening, and 
threw himself about all over the bed. I 
went to him several times and asked the 
question I had already asked scores of 



7i 

times, " Where is Eddy sick?" and he 
gave his usual answer of " I don't know." 
I offered to bathe his head, but he would 
not allow it ; afterwards, however, he called 
me to come and comb it, and I did so 
gently, a long time, hoping to soothe his 

nerves by this means. Mrs. B had sent 

some New Year's toys for the children, and 
as he was wide awake and very restless, I let 
M. exhibit to him one which I thought 
must certainly attract him. "Take it 
away ! take it away ! " he cried out, as if 
it distressed him to be called upon to ad- 
mire anything. 



V. 



The Agony of Suspense — " Via Dolorosa " — 
Alone with her dying Boy — Cheering him 
with Song and Story. 



So be it ; I, a child of dust, 
Will not oppose Thy way ; 

Move on, mysterious Will ; I trust, 
I love, and will obey. 



V. 

/^VN entering the nursery on New Year's 
^^ morning, I was struck with his ap- 
pearance, as he lay in bed ; his face being 
spotted all over. On asking M. about it, 
she said he had been crying, and that this 
had occasioned the spots. This did not 
seem probable to me, for I had never seen 
anything of this kind on his face before. 
How little I knew that these were the last 
tears my darling would ever shed ! It oc- 
curred to me that as scarlet fever was more 
or less prevalent, he might have taken it ; 
this would account for most of the symp- 
toms which had made me uneasy. I had 
always dreaded this fearful disease, but 
now said to myself, "Anything but water 
on the brain ! " — and went down to break- 
fast really elated, thinking I would now 
have the doctor see him. I waited until 

* 75) * 



7 6 

he came to make his New Year's call ; he 
came early, and I asked him up to see 
Eddy, and told him everything that I 
thought would throw light upon the case. 
He said he should not like to prescribe any 
remedy until he knew the disease ; asked 
if he had had the measles, and said he 
would come the next day. 

I felt more easy, and spent most of the 
day in the parlor, receiving visitors ; as 
often as I could I ran up to look at Eddy, 
or take him in my arms. He was very 
restless, and looked pale ; and there was an 
expression of pain in his eyes. He did not 
play on this day, but once or twice had 
some of his toys arranged on a table, where 
he could look at them. He slept a good 
deal. Miss Bronson sent him a box of 
very pretty blocks ; he aroused himself on 
seeing them, and wanted me to spread 
them out on the table, but did not touch 
them himself. A., who stood where she 
could see his face, cried out that he was 



77 

smiling at them. If so, it was for the last 
time. 

On Saturday, January 3, Dr. B. ordered 
two grains of calomel, to be followed by 
magnesia, etc. Eddy had now a very 
slight, but frequent cough, which seemed 
to annoy him ; every time he coughed he 
would mention it to M. and then to me. 
He showed great aversion to noise ; if A. 
moved or sang or read, he would say, 
" Don't, Annie ! " And it was a trial to 
him to have her even kiss his hand. Some- 
times he would not let his nurse hold him, 
and then he would turn to me ; then all of 
a sudden, would cry out for his Marget. 
again. He took his powders without ob- 
jecting, and afterward a great spoonful of 
rhubarb mixture. He was tortured with 
constant nausea, and it cost him a great 
effort to take this large dose ; on my prom- 
ising to t^ll papa and grandmamma what 
a good boy he was, he swallowed it cheer- 
fully. He said again on this day: "I do 



* 78 

wish my uncle Henry would come." He 
slept much, and had no appetite. 

Early in the morning he asked to sit in 
his little chair and have his hair cut off ; I 
accordingly cut a good deal from the back 
of his head ; after which, as he seemed 
tired, I said we would let the rest go till 
some other time, and then took him up. 
He was in my arms nearly the whole day, 
. as he would neither lie on the bed or let 
me take him About dusk he mani- 
fested great distress, and tore hair from his 
head by the handful, which I took from his 
clenched fingers and laid aside. I had 
now little doubt as to the nature and seat 
of the disease ; I could not restrain a few 
tears. A. hung round him and said : 
" Mamma, if Eddy has many more such 
dreadful pains, I am afraid he will die." 
When she said this, I supposed him to be 
asleep ; but without opening hfs eyes, he 
said quickly : " No, Annie ! No, Annie ! I 
sha'n't die." He had another restless 



79 

night ; I came into the nursery repeatedly 
during the night, unable to sleep myself, 
and heavy-hearted indeed. He would not 
allow me to take him, however, and after 
sitting awhile idle and anxious I would re- 
turn to bed. 

On Sunday morning, January 4, not 
being able to come himself, Dr. B. sent 
Doctor W. in his place. We had succeeded 
in persuading Eddy not to be entirely 
. dressed, as he had been hitherto, and he 
now lay a little at a time on the bed in his 
dressing-gown. I told Dr. W. that I 
thought he had water on the brain; he 
said he had not, but might have worms, 
and ordered nothing but a warm bath. . . . 
About noon, on this day, he rallied for 
more than an hour; asked for his candies 
which had been put away on Christmas 
day, and had them arranged on the table. 
I told him I thought I might lend him a 
box to keep them in, he had so many, and 
he was interested in seeing me look for 



8o 

one. I had two little pink hearts left, or 
rather a heart and a ring, and told him he 
might have one of them ; he selected one 
and put it into the box himself. 

I then brought a little bottle, into which 
he had taken pleasure in dropping, one by 
one, a quantity of tiny sugar-plums ; he 
played in this way a few minutes, I hold- 
ing the bottle and M. the plums for him. 
It did seem so pleasant to see him amusing 
himself once more ! He talked a great 
deal all the time, but we do not remember 
a word he said ; it was about his play- 
things — his usual little prattle. He ap- 
peared to sleep most of the afternoon, and 
when he found us preparing his bath at 
night, objected to going into his tub, stren- 
uously, but at last consented. He had a 
very restless night ; slept little, and com- 
plained of pain in every part of his body ; 
now of his feet and legs, now of his arms 
and hands, then of his forehead, then of 
the back of his neck. 



* 



8i 

On awaking, Monday morning, January 
5, he said: "Marget, why didn't I have 
my own doctor yesterday? What did 
that other man come here for?" And 
soon after to me : " Oh, mamma, there 
have been hairs in my eyes all night, and 
my teeth ached." His father wanted to 
carry him about the room in his arms, but 
he declined. He had wanted the shutters 
closed the day before, but now asked M. to 
open them, and she did so. He would not 
let me hold him much, and was very rest- 
less. When the doctor came I told him that 
Eddy was unable to retain any nourish- 
ment ; he said I might try ice-cream, and 
at night apply a mustard plaster to the 
back of his neck and soak his feet. I sent 
instantly for the ice-cream, but owing to 
some misunderstanding failed to procure 
any. I then went down and mixed a little 
snow, cream, and sugar together, with the 
hope that this might possibly tempt his 
appetite. He took several teaspoonfuls 
and said it was " dood." 



82 

Soon after, as I was sitting with him in 
his little chair, he said, mournfully, looking 
towards the window : " I wish I could see 
leaves on those trees once more." Touched 
by his manner, and by the thought these 
words suggested, I could not restrain a few 
tears ; and then said, " Mamma thinks that 
before the leaves come again upon the 
trees, her little darling will be where the 
leaves never fade." I did not expect or 
wish him to understand this, but A. imme- 
diately said, " Mamma means that she 
thinks you will be in heaven before long." 
" I don't want to die," he returned. I 
then said as cheerfully as I could : " Why, 
you know it is a great deal pleasanter in 
heaven than it is here. There are no old, 
naked trees there; little boys don't have 
the headache there; /should love dearly 
to go, if God should say I might." " Yes," 
said A. ; " don't you know how we used 
to sing about ' that happy land ' ? " I then 
began to sing that little hymn beginning : 



83 

■ Around the throne of God in heaven, ten 
thousand children stand," till my fainting 
heart was cheered. The next time he was 
alone with his nurse, he said : " Marget, 
shall I ever see the leaves come on those 
trees?" Not knowing what had passed, 
she said : " Of course you will." " My 
mamma said perhaps I shouldn't," he re- 
turned. 

Soon after this he said to me : " Mam- 
ma, I must go to the top of the house 
now." " Oh, no ; not to-day, must you ? " 
I said. " Yes, I must go ; there is a lady 
there who has been waiting for me all day; 
she has dot something for me." I perceived 
that his mind was wandering, and again 
began to sing, in order to soothe him, and 
he relapsed into a sort of stupor in which 
he lay some time. He said repeatedly dur- 
ing this day : " Oh, I don't like to be 
sick ! " " Oh, I wish God would make me 
get well." Towards night we applied the 
plaster ; we had a good deal of trouble in 



* 84 * 

keeping it on, for this was his restless time 
of day, and he did not appear to know 
what he was saying or doing. It drew 
very well, but gave no relief. He had, if 
possible, a worse night than the previous 
one, and would not take a particle of 
nourishment, though now very feeble from 
the want of it. 

In the morning, January 6, 1 offered him 
everything I could think of, but in vain. 
Not knowing what to do, and seeing him 
almost fainting with exhaustion, I said, 
" Does my Eddy want to die ? " He said, 
" No, I don't want to die at all" I told 
him he would certainly die if he neither 
ate nor drank, and asked if he would not 
take just one little baby teaspoonful of 
jelly to please mamma, who would cry very 
much if he should die. He then consented 
to my putting a very little into his mouth. 
Not knowing that it would be safe to do 
otherwise, I had made this jelly without 
wine, but with a good deal of lemon-juice, 



* 



85 



hoping thus to make it palatable. His father 
was going to Newark, and came in to bid 
him good-bye, asking if he would send a 
kiss to grandma. He kissed him, and very 
soon relapsed into a stupor, in which he lay 
with his eyes rolled up into his head, when 
he suddenly started up. I sent M. for 
some more snow and cream, and he sat 
without support on my lap while I fed him 
with it, as he would not allow her to do 
so. During these five minutes the doctor 
came in, and was deceived, I suppose, by 
his appearance. I told him it was a tran- 
sient exertion of strength, and that he had 
not noticed anything since the early morn- 
ing ; and now for the first time said to him 
that I believed there was water on the 
brain. To this he returned no answer and 
left the room. 

Eddy, in the meantime, had thrown 
himself back upon my arm, in a stupor 
again. The moment the doctor had left, M. 
burst into tears ; for myself, I was almost 



* 86 



desperate. A long day and a long night, 
during which we had nothing to do but 
hang over this failing child. I gave him 
to his nurse and went into my room, 
where I walked up and down in a fever 
of suspense and distress. Already worn 
with sleepless, anxious nights and restless 
days, I felt unable to endure the pressure 
of another day and night of solitary care, 
nor could I find it easy to say : " Thy will 
be done ! " I said to myself that I was 
willing to give my child to God ; but that 
this uncertainty I should sink under. Then 
I reflected that even this was divinely 
ordered, and so trying to trust and not be 
afraid, 1 returned to my little darling. He 
looked even more ill as I now saw him in his 
nurse's arms than when in my own. It 
was a dreadful day; so stormy without 
that I did not feel it would be right to 
send for any friend ; so stormy in my heart 
that it was like a troubled sea. 

When his father returned at night, I told 



* 8 7 * 

him what a day I had spent ; that Eddy 
had been apparently unconscious ever since 
noon, and gave no sign of life whatever, 
save by the gentlest little breathing which 
I had to listen for with my ear near his 
mouth. He said he had seen sicker chil- 
dren repeatedly, in his pastoral visits ; but 
if I wished he would go and ask Dr. B. his 
opinion of the case. I said that his opinion 
for that day was founded on false appear^ 
ances ; that if he considered Eddy in as 
critical a state as I did, he would have been 
in again this evening, and that I should not 
have been surprised to see the poor little 
boy drop away at almost any moment, his 
prostration was now so very great. On 
hearing all this, his father said he should 
go round and see the doctor, and accordingly 
did so. Dr. B. said it was a puzzling case ; 
that he had feared that disease of the head 
was creeping on and establishing itself ; 
but that there might be worms — and that 
Doctor W. was divided, with himself, be- 
>J«tween these two- points. >j< 



88 

Eddy lay all night in this exhausted con- 
dition ; and on Wednesday morning, Jan- 
uary 7, for the first time, did not insist on 
being dressed. He remained, therefore, in 
bed, with no pulse at the wrist, but with 
his eyes wide open. When Dr. B. came 
in, he put his ear to Eddy's mouth, just as 
I had done, and said he must as soon as 
possible have an enema of beef- tea, a 
wine-glassful every four hours; and that 
he wished to call in Dr. Johnson, as con- 
sulting physician. My own mind had now 
become calm, and its strugglings were over. 
I saw what God would have of me, and 
that He was going to help me through 
what lay before me. 

Soon after the administration of the 
first enema Eddy revived, and continued 
to improve in strength all day, but was 

more and more restless. Mrs. B came 

early in the morning, and offered to send 
her cradle for his use ; he said after she 
went out, on hearing us talking about it, 



89 

that he would not lie in a " Cradle." We 
tried to hold him, but I thought it must 
fatigue him more to lie in our arms than 
on the bed or in a cradle. When it came, 
which was late in the afternoon, his rest- 
lessness was very great, and he did not like 
it long at a time. In the course of the 
day he would often sigh, and say : " Oh, so 
tired ! " And repeated what he had said 
before : " I wish God would make me get 
well." 

On Thursday, January 8, while M. was 
at dinner, I knelt by the side of the cradle, 
rocking it very gently, and he asked me to 
tell him a story. I asked what about, and 
he said: "A little boy"; on which I said 
something like this : " Mamma knows a 
dear little boy who was very sick. His 
head ached, and he felt sick all over. God 
said, ' I must let that little lamb come into 
my fold ; then his head will never ache 
again, and he will be a very happy little 
lamb.' " I used the words " little lamb," 



9 o 

because he was so fond of them. Often 
he would run to his nurse with his face full 
of animation, and say : " Marget ! mam- 
ma says I am her little lamb ! v While I 
was telling him this story his eyes were 
fixed intelligently on my face. I then 
said : " Would you like to know the name 
of this boy?" With eagerness he said, 
" Yes ; yes, mamma." Taking his dear lit- 
tle hand in mine, and kissing it, I said : " It 
was Eddy." Just then M. came in, and his 
attention was diverted, so I said no more. 



* 



VI. 

Still watching and waiting — A parting Kiss — 
The Good-bye — The Master comes! — "// 
is well with the Child " 



TO MY DYING EDDY. 

January 16th. 

Blest child ! Dear child ! For thee is Jesus call- 
ing; 

And of our household thee — and only thee ! 
Oh, hasten hence ! to His embraces hasten ! 

Sweet shall thy rest and safe thy shelter be. 

Thou who unguarded ne'er hast left our threshold, 
Alone must venture now an un*known way ; 

Yet, fear not ! Footprints of an Infant Holy 
Lie on thy path ; thou canst not go astray. 



VL 



T T E presently asked to be taken up ; 
*■• ■*■ M. was about doing so, when he 
said, " No, I want mamma to." I was not 
able to lift him up, though I could hold 
him without much difficulty, and M. there- 
fore lifted him for me as usual. He sank 
into his stupor almost immediately, and 
continued in this state for about an hour, 
when he suddenly started up and said he 
wanted his little table set out. M. rose 
and got it for him, placing it as near him 
as possible. " Now bring my chair." This 
having been done, he said, " Now hurry 
and get my dinner." I told M. she might 
bring some of the jelly I had made for. 
him, which was in the next room, and his 
little mug of water; and when this was 
* (93) ^ 



94 

also done he resisted my attempt to place 
him in his chair, saying he could get down 
himself. He could not bear his own weight 
on his feet, however, and let us help him 
into his chair, where he sat some minutes 
feeding himself with a little spoon. There 
was an expression of anguish in his eyes 
and an air of stern resolution about him 
which made it painful to see him exerting 
himself to such a degree ; and yet there 
was a pleasure in seeing him once more in 
the old familiar place. I was sorry his 
father was not at home to see his little 
sufferer contending so patiently with dis- 
ease. 

Thinking he would probably never take 
food again, I put away his little spoon in 
another room. He was now in M.'s lap, 
and very uneasy ; she, too, looked very 
tired, and for both their sakes I asked him 
if he would lie on the bed if I would lie by 
his side. He consented, but soon called 
M. to lie on his other side, and as she did 



95 T 

so, became more restless, and soon told her 
to. get up and lie on the floor. Then, as 
if fearful he had hurt her feelings, he asked 
me to give her a pillow, and, to gratify 
him, I did so, though I knew she was not 
on the floor. He said many rather inco- 
herent things, and finally told me to get up 
and make room for his Marget. We grati- 
fied him in this also, and I then went down 
to tea. As soon as I had gone, he asked 
M. to rub the back of his head, and as she 
did so, cried out, " Rub harder ! rub harder ! 
rub harder ! " till uttering a scream he 
threw himself across the bed, in a fit. 

On going down to tea I had said to M. 
she could ring the bell if anything hap- 
pened. She had not the least idea what I 
meant, but she now flew to the bell and 
rang it. I screamed out, " Eddy has a fit ! " 
and was in the nursery almost in the twink- 
ling of an eye, his father following me like 
one distracted, saying, " Remember your 
life is of more consequence to me than 



that of a hundred children." In two min- 
utes, thanks to our bathing-room, we had 
the poor little rigid form in warm water. 
While in the tub, his cries were fearful, and 
rent my heart with their strange, unnatural 
sound ; his hands were clenched and his 
eyes fixed, but there was little convulsive 
agitation. In eight or ten minutes I had 
him taken from the water and wrapped in 
blankets and laid in my arms. I had never 
seen a child in a fit, and was so agitated 
that I hardly knew what was best to be 
done, nor how long it was proper he should 
remain in the bath. His father had gone 
for the doctor, who applied a mustard plas- 
ter to the pit of his stomach. In about 
an hour he recovered consciousness, and 
looked up at me as he would have done if 
awaking from sleep. Miss Bleecker, for 
whom I had sent, was here, and said she 
would spend the night. The doctor gave 
directions for a blister, and its application 
to the back of his neck, and ordered one 



97 * 

or two more eilemas of beef-tea before 
morning. We now put on the dear child's 
night-clothes and applied the blister ; he 
appeared to sleep until the blister began 
to draw, when he cried out at intervals 
till 5 A.M., " Oh, mamma ! my neck ! oh, 
Marget ! my neck ! " in accents of distress 
which my ears will ever hear. At this 
time he had another fit like the first, and 
was unconscious for about three-quarters 
of an hour. On recovering, he looked at 
me with that same intelligent but surprised 
glance I had seen before. 

As soon as it became light, on the 
morning of the 9th, he raised himself a 
little and looked round the room, saying, 
" Where's Annie? I want her." I told 
him it made her cry so to see him sick 
that I had put her into papa's bed. He 
said again, " I want her ! " and she says 
now, " Oh, mamma ! why didnt you call 
me ! " He lay in the cradle all day, most 
of the time unconscious ; his eyes were 



98 

open and very brilliant. Mrs. S. came 
early and stayed most of the day. Once 
Eddy tried to speak, but could not ; he 
.then made signs that he had a sore finger 
and that he wanted a rag on it. He had 
picked at it until it was quite inflamed. 

In the afternoon Dr. B. brought Dr. 
Johnson, and on their asking him to put 
out his tongue he did so. On leaving, 
they directed nothing but wine whey. Dr. 
B. came again in the evening, and said we 
might give about two tablespoonfuls every 
hour from a cup, if he would drink from 
one. I had asked if it would be safe to 
take him up, put on clean clothes, and 
get him more comfortably fixed in a crib 
Mrs. S. had offered to send over. Dr. B. 
thought it not only safe, but advisable. 
. . . . He was very neat, and dearly loved 
to have clean clothes on, and after some 
persuasion, consented readily. But little 
time as it occupied to make the change, it 
fatigued him so much that it was two 



99 

hours from the moment he was taken up 
before we ventured to put him into the 
crib. It was so comforting to have him 
once more in my arms that I was only- 
willing, for his sake, to lay him down. 

Louise Shipman came in at this time and 
offered to spend the night, but as we had 
made other arrangements, I asked her to 
come next day instead. She did so, and did 
not leave us again till all was over. Mrs. 
Tracy watched this night, and I threw my- 
self on the nursery bed, and made M. do 
the same, as we both were worn out. I 
did not sleep, but heard Mrs. T. every 
hour give Eddy his wine whey and some- 
times water. Towards morning he kept 
saying, as if remonstrating with some one 
urging it upon him, " I don't want any more 
water" — over and over, from which I per- 
ceived that his mind was wandering again. 

On going to him Saturday morning, 
January 10, I observed at once that his 
countenance had changed, and that he did 



v 100 T 

not see any of us, and feared he was soon 
to leave us. At seven he was seized with 
spasms, which affected only one side, and 
which lasted two hours. When they 
ceased, he looked tranquil and beautiful 
beyond description. His eyes were lighted 
up with the brilliancy lent by this disease, 
and the very spirit of heaven seemed to 
look forth from that lovely countenance. 
We stood around the crib fascinated and 
soothed, expecting every moment that his 
sun would go down amid these bright 
clouds. Contrary to these expectations, 
however, he lingered on, but as he could 
not swallow, and began to look extremely 
worn and exhausted, it was painful to see 
his heaven-bound spirit still detained and 

imprisoned here. Mrs. B watched with 

him this night, during which he appeared 
comfortable, and could take wine whey 
and water. His head was kept wet, or 
had a bag of ice applied to it ; this re- 
freshed and relieved him evidently. 



101 

On Sunday, January II, he took drinks 
frequently. I had not left the room since 
Thursday evening for more than three 
minutes at a time, fearing he would drop 
away in my absence. Mr. and Mrs. Bull 
came in, and Mrs. Smith, who offered to 
stay then or come at night, and it was ar- 
ranged that she should spend the night. 
Oh, how many kind friends now surround- 
ed us ! How many friendly acts were per- 
formed ! How many prayers offered for us 
and for our little one ! May God, who has 
recorded them all, bless those whom He 
moved to sympathize with us in our afflic- 
tion ! 

At noon, while they were all at dinner 
or elsewhere, I was left alone with my dar- 
ling for a few moments, and could not help 
kissing his unconscious lips. To my utter 
amazement he looked up and plainly recog- 
nized me, and warmly returned my kiss. 
Then he said, feebly but distinctly, twice, 
" I want some meat and potatoes." I was 



102 

transported with joy. I do not think 1 
should have been more delighted if he had 
risen from the dead once more to recognize 
me. Oh, it was such a comfort to feel 
again the sweet pressure of those little 
lips, and to be able to gratify one more 
wish ! Mrs. Wainwright had sent in some 
calves'- foot jelly and grapes. I was about 
to put some of the jelly into his mouth 
when he put forth his little thin hand and 
took it from me, feeding himself with it 
eagerly, and as if starving. I then asked 
him if he would have a grape ; he said 
"Yes," in his own sweet way, and he took 
it from me as he had done with the jelly, 
returning the skin and seeds as usual. 
Before they returned to the room he had 
sunk away again. 

Dr. Johnson came in, and was surprised, 
apparently, at his having asked for food, 
and said I should by all means give him 
everything I thought he would fancy. 
After this, as long as he could swallow, he 



103 

was fed, just like a little pet robin, with 
ice-cream, jelly, little bits of sugar, and 
ice. One night he ate six grapes besides 
some jelly. About six in the evening, 
as his father sat by his side with the dear 
little hand in his own, Eddy looked up and 
recognized him, and spoke to him twice, 
but in so faint a whisper that we could not 
understand what he said. Shortly after 
this he began to sink rapidly, and we all 
sat in silence around him, expecting every 
moment would be his last. We sat thus 
for five hours, during which a little pulsa- 
tion in the neck was the only indication 
that life still lingered. As it approached 
midnight, his father stopped the noisy 
clock, whose loud tones we all dreaded. 
At this moment Eddy partly turned over, 
pointing with his hand to his neck. We 
had not been able to dress his blister since 
Friday night, as he had been lying on his 
back ever since ; but now, as he remained 
inclining to one side, it was dressed with- 



104 ' 

out disturbing him. He was so relieved 
by the dressing on this occasion that he 
put his hand up to his nurse's neck, just 
as he did in health when he loved her best, 
and so fell sweetly asleep. 

The next day, January 12, his uncle 
Stearns and aunt Anna spent with us. 
He had another sinking turn in the course 
of it, but rallied again, and took jelly and 
grapes which a friend brought for him. 

All day on Tuesday, January 13, he lay 
in a lethargy ; could hardly swallow, and 
had a more flushed and feverish appear- 
ance than he had ever done. 

At half-past two on Wednesday morn- 
ing, January 14, slight spasms came on ; 
they continued for some hours, and in- 
creased his exhaustion. He took little 
nourishment after this, as it was difficult 
for him to swallow ; a teaspoonful of water 
or a bit of ice, and once a very little ice- 
cream. I went to sleep in my own room 
on Wednesday and Thursday nights, as I 



105 

was now fearful of doing wrong in neglect- 
ing proper care of my health for the sake 
of the baby. I made M., too, try to get 
some sleep in another room, as she looked 
greatly worn, and was suffering much in 
parting with her loving charge. 

On Friday, January 16, his little weary 
sighs became more profound, and as the 
day advanced, more like groans, but ap- 
peared to indicate extreme fatigue rather 
than severe pain. Towards night his 
breathing became quick and laborious, and 
between seven and eight, slight spasms 
agitated his little feeble frame. He uttered 
cries of distress for a few minutes, when 
they ceased, and his loving and gentle 
spirit ascended to that world where thou- 
sands of holy children, and the blessed 
company of angels, and our blessed Lord 
Jesus, I doubt not, joyfully welcomed him. 
Now, indeed, we were able to say: It is 
well with the child ! 

" Oh," said the gardener, as he passed 



io6 

down the garden walk : " who plucked 
that flower? Who gathered that plant?" 
His fellow-servant answered : " The MAS- 
TER ! " And the gardener held his peace. 



(The following is from a letter of Mrs, 
Prentiss to her brother Henry, dated Janu- 
ary 26, 1852.) 

His father closed his eyes in an agony of 
weeping ; and I threw myself down by his 
little crib and thanked God that those eye- 
lids, which for a whole week had been open, 
could now repose in a sleep from which 
they never need waken. Yes, I was glad 
that my darling had got away from this 
weary world, and that I had now a little 
angel in heaven. I had said that no hands 
but mine should fit him for the grave, but 
God knows how to break us in to His will 
when He sees best to do so. I was alarmed 
for the safety of my yet unseen baby which 
had given no sign of life since the night of 



T 107 v 

dear Eddy's fit, and let them persuade me 
to sit by, while M. and Louise did what lit- 
tle there was to be done. Then we knelt 
down, and George prayed with such faith 
and fervor that at last a few tears refreshed 
my tired eyes, which I feared would never 
weep again. The funeral was on Monday. 
Dr. Skinner officiated, and the choir came 
over and sung, " Thy will be done," most 
delightfully. It was like cold water to 
thirsty souls. This was all we had to say 
or could say. The little body lies almost 
within a stone's throw of us, for the pres- 
ent, and the little spirit is all about us, 
whispering words of comfort and cheering 
us even in our saddest hours. 

I need not try to tell you how much we 
miss those dear little feet, how much we 
talk of all his pretty ways, how at times it 
seems as if we heard his voice on the stairs. 
Every hour we feel more and more that he 
is gone and gone forever; and every hour 
the sharp pang presses harder and harder, 
until our hearts die within us We 



io8 

have been loaded with kindness from every 
direction, and our people have manifested 
the most hearty sympathy. Louise Ship- 
man endeared herself to us very much, and 
we feel most grateful to her. Mrs. Bull was 
here day and night, and watched every 
other night for a week ; and I have had 
some of the most comforting little notes 
sent in. I used to think I could never en- 
dure to lose a child, but you see how it is. 
God does carry us through anything He 
pleases, 



VII. 

Little Bessie — A Mojnent here ; then gone for- 
ever — The Mother's Lament. 



* 



Jesus, I turn to Thee ! oh, let me hide 

Within Thy breast ; 
Refuge and shelter, peace and grace provide, 

And needed rest. 

For in the mazes of a troublous hour 

I make my way ; 
Oh, come to me ! Thou hast the will, the power, 

Be mine alway ! 



VII. 

/^UR darling Eddy died on the 16th of 
^^ January. From that time my health 
was very feeble, and it was a weary and 
painful thing to bear the baby he had so 
often spoken of. She was born on the 
17th of April. I was too feeble to have 
any care of her; never had her in my 
arms but twice; once the day before she 
died, and once while she was dying. I 
never saw her little feet. She was a beau- 
tiful little creature, with a great quantity 
of dark hair, and very dark blue eyes. The 
nurse had to keep her in another room on 
account of my illness. When she was a 
month old she brought her to me one 
afternoon. " This child is perfectly beau- 
tiful," said she. " To-morrow I mean to 
dress her up and have her likeness taken." 



112 T 

I asked her to get me up in bed and let 
me take her a minute. She objected, and 
I urged her a good deal, till at last she con- 
sented. The moment I took her I was 
struck by her unearthly, absolutely angelic 
expression, and not being strong enough 
to help it, burst out crying, bitterly, and 
cried all the afternoon, while I was strug- 
gling to give her up. 

Her father was at Newark. When he 
came home at dark, I told him I was sure 
that baby was going to die. He laughed 
at me; said my weak health made me 
fancy it, and asked the nurse if the child 
was not well. She said she was perfectly 
well. My presentiment remained, how- 
ever, in full force, and the first thing next 
morning I asked Margaret to go and see 
how baby was. She came back, saying: 
" She is very well. She lies there on the 
bed scolding to herself." I cried out to 
have her instantly brought to me ; M. re- 
fused, saying the nurse would be displeased. 



* 113 *** 

But my anxieties were excited by her use 
of the word " scolding/' as I knew no baby 
a month old did anything of that sort, and 
insisted on its being brought to me. The 
instant I touched it I felt its head to be of 
a burning heat, and sent for the nurse at 
once. When she came, I said : " This child 
is very sick." "Yes," she said; "but I 
wanted you to have your breakfast first. 
At one o'clock in the night I found a little 
swelling. I do not know what it is, but 
the child is certainly very sick." On ex- 
amination I knew it was erysipelas. " Don't 
say that ! " said the nurse, and burst into 
tears. I made them get me up and partly 
dress me, as I was so excited I could not 
stay in bed. The doctor came at 10 o'clock ; 
he expressed no anxiety, but prescribed for 
her, and George went out to get what he 
ordered. 

The nurse brought her to me at 11 
o'clock, arid begged me to observe that the 
spot had turned black. I knew at once 



v 114 A 

that this was fearful, fatal disease, and 
entreated George to go and tell the doctor. 
He went to please me, though he saw no 
need of it, and gave a wrong message to 
the doctor, to the effect that the swelling 
was increasing, to which the doctor replied 
that it naturally would do so. The little 
creature whose moans Margaret had termed 
scolding, now was heard all over that floor ; 
every breath a moan that tore my heart in 
pieces. I begged to have her brought to 
me, but the nurse sent word she was too 
sick to be moved. I then begged the nurse 
to come and tell me exactly what she 
thought of her, but she said she would not 
leave her. I then crawled on my hands 
and knees into the room, being unable then 
and for a long time after to bear my 
weight on my feet. What a scene our 
nursery presented ! Everything upset and 
tossed about ; medicines here and there on 
the floor, a fire like a fiery furnace, and 
Miss H. sitting hopelessly and with falling 



ii5 

tears, with the baby on a pillow in her lap. 
All its boasted beauty gone forever. The 
sight was appalling, and its moans heart- 
rending. George came and got me back 
to my sofa, and said he felt as if he should 
jump out of the window every time he heard 
that dreadful sound. He had to go out, 
and made me promise not to try to go to 
the nursery till his return. I foolishly 
promised. Mrs. White called, and I told 
her I was going to lose my baby ; she was 
very kind and went in to see it, but I be- 
lieve expressed no opinion as to its state. 
But she repeated an expression which I 
repeated to myself many times that day, 
and have repeated thousands of times 
since, " God never makes a mistake" 

Margaret went, soon after she left, to see 
how the poor little creature was, and did 
not come back. Hour passed after hour 
and no one came. I lay racked with cruel 
torture, bitterly regretting my promise to 
George, listening to those moans till I was 



* u6 

nearly wild. Then, in a frenzy of despair, 
I pulled myself over to my bureau where 
I had arranged the dainty little garments 
vny darling was to wear, and which I had 
promised myself so much pleasure in see- 
ing her wear. I took out everything she 
would need for her burial with a sort of 
wild pleasure, in doing for her one little 
service, where I had hoped to render so 
many. She it was whom we expected to 
fill our lost Eddy's vacant place ; we 
thought we had had our sorrow and that 
now our joy had come. As I lay back ex- 
hausted with those garments on my breast, 
Louisa Shipman 1 opened the door. One 
glance at my piteous face, for oh, how glad 
I was to see her ! made her burst into tears 
before she knew what she was crying for. 

" Oh, go bring me news from my poor 
dying baby ! " I almost screamed as she 



1 Her cousin, whose sudden death occurred under 
the same roof in October of the next year. 



H7 

approached me ; " and see, here are her 
grave-clothes." " Oh, Lizzy, have you gone 
crazy?" cried she, with a fresh burst of 
tears. I besought her to go, told her how 
my promise bound me, made her listen to 
those terrible sounds which two doors 
could not shut out. 

As she left the room she met Dr. B., 
and they went to the nursery together. 
She soon came back, quiet and composed, 
but very sorrowful. 

"Yes, she is dying," said she; "the 
doctor says so. She will not live an hour." 
.... At last, we heard the sound of George's 
key. Louisa ran to call him. I crawled 
once more to the nursery, and snatched my 
baby in fierce triumph from the nurse. At 
least once I would hold my child, and no- 
body should prevent me. George, pale as 
death, baptized her as I held her in my 
trembling arms ; there were a few more of 
those terrible, never-to-be-forgotten sounds, 
and at y o'clock we were once more left 



* u8 



with only one child. A short, sharp con. 
flict, and our baby was gone. 

Dr. B. came in later and said the whole 
thing was to him like a thunderclap, as it 
was to her poor father. To me it followed 
closely on the presentiment that in some 
measure prepared me for it. Here I sit 
with empty hands. I have had the little 
coffin in my arms, but my baby's face 
could not be seen, so rudely had death 
marred it. Empty hands, empty hands, a 
worn-out, exhausted body, and unutterable 
longings to flee from a world that has had 
for me so many sharp experiences. God 
help me, my baby, my baby ; God help me, 
my little lost Eddy. 



T 119 A 

BESSIE. 

They have put away the cradle forever out of sight ; 

They have folded up and laid away the little gar- 
ments white ; 

They have ransacked every drawer ; every cupboard 
they've laid bare ; 

Lest mine eye perchance should fall on what my baby 
used to wear ! 

But my sorrow and amazement — they have left them 

as they lay — 
No tender, thoughtful hand has yet folded these 

away ; 
My rooms restored to order, look as they did before, 
But will the old look haply to my heart return once 

more ? 

I fancied, little daughter, thou hadst flown to my em- 
brace, 

To fill with thy sweet presence, thy brother's empty 
place ; 

I said, " I've had my sorrow ! Now welcome to my 
joy! 

He sends this precious baby who took my only boy !" 

Why flee that place, my darling? why didst thou 

but alight 
A moment there, bright vision ! then take thy speedy 

flight ? 
Was it not warm with tenderness, not rich in love 

and prayer ; 
And sacred to his memory who used to nestle there ? 



120 



Alas ! alas ! my baby. I loved, I loved thee so ! 
How eagerly, how thankfully thou surely didst not 

know ; 
How could that tiny coffin attract thine infant eye ? 
Why not like other little ones within thy cradle 

lie? 

Dear Lord, have pity on me ! oh, see my idle hands ! 

See how my crib stands empty, how my cradle va- 
cant stands ; 

Of my little ones forsaken, hast Thou aught for me 
to do? 

What shall I turn to now? oh, what path shall I 
pursue ? 

Thou knowest, oh, my Father, what work I love the 

best ; 
Thou only knowest how I clasp my children to my 

breast ! 
Yet Thou hast taken from me the task I fancied 

Thine, 
Thy hand it has bereft me of the treasures I thought 

mine. 

Oh, let me not distrust Thee in this hour of my dis- 
tress ; 

Close, closer to Thy side in my sorrow let me press. 

What I know not now Thou knowest! On that 
rock I plant my feet ; 

Oh, blessed Lord, I thank Thee for this refuge, sure 
and sweet. 






121 



MY NURSERY. 1852. 

I thought that prattling boys and girls 

Would fill this empty room ; 
That my rich heart would gather flowers 

From childhood's opening bloom. 

One child and two green graves are mine, 

This is God's gift to me ; 
A bleeding, fainting, broken heart — 

This is my gift to Thee. 









* 






VIII. 

Sorrow blossoming into Sympathy — Letters to 
an old Schoolmate ; written in 1854-6. 



Oh, that this heart with grief so well acquainted, 
Might be a fountain rich and sweet and full 

For all the weary that have fall'n and fainted 
In life's parched desert, thirsty, sorrowful ! 



* 



VIII. 

To Mrs. M. C. H. C. 

New York, March 25, 1854. 

HOW could you say, my dear Carrie, 
that I don't like long letters ! I only wish 
yours had been twice as long, and that you 
had told me more about yourself and your 
little ones — the one here, and the one 
there! Knowing that you have a child 
where my own two darlings have gone, and 
thinking that they who never met on earth, 
are perhaps meeting there, seems to draw 
me nearer to you than ever. How gladly I 
would spend days in talking with you over 
all the way in which the Lord has led us 
since we parted nine eventful years ago ! I 
can not but think that bereavement of lit- 
tle children is one of our Father's chosen 
methods of best teaching us lessons of 

(125) 



* 



126 

which we are ignorant, and without which 
few are fit to live. For how few, how very 
few parents, but know what it means to lay 
away in the cold earth the little form so 
tenderly cared for and shielded up to that 
hour ! For myself I feel that I have only 
begun to learn the truths my afflictions 
were sent to teach me ; it makes my heart 
ache to think how little real good they 
have done me, and how ignorant and blind 
I still am. Yet, I can truly say that I feel 
myself a favored mother, to have been per- 
mitted to send two of my children away 
from my own poor training, my mistakes 
and follies, to the very bosom of the Good 
Shepherd. Of those two I may feel assured 
that they will never sin against God ; never 
foe guilty of any of my infirmities, or ever 
taste the bitter fruits of iniquity. How many 
comforts we have in such sorrows as ours ! 
What blessedness in the certainty that it is 
well with our children ; well beyond our con- 
ception ; well forever and ever. 



127 

I feel that you have had a great addition to 
your affliction in the fact of your husband's 
absence and utter inability perfectly to share 
it, at a distance as he was, and if I understand 
it, of his never having seen his first-born 
son. But doubtless this trying feature of 
your lot has its own peculiar work to per- 
form, and will bring its own peculiar bless- 
ing. I much wonder that I was so long 
ignorant of the deaths of your brother and 
your child ; but about that time we went into 
the country, where we saw only the city pa- 
pers. I assure you, dear Carrie, you have my 
warmest love and sympathy. If it were pos- 
sible, I would go to Portland this summer, 
and at one time I did think quite seriously 
of going there for some months. But I 
could not make up my mind to be sepa- 
rated so long from my husband, except in 
case of need. Should the cholera make its 
appearance here, I may yet be driven away. 
I hope you are not going to California, for 
though I may never see you, I like to feel 



128 

it not impossible. We ought, both of us, 
to be wiser and better than we were when 
we parted. 

Thank you for your interest in my little 
books, with which I am much gratified. I 
would not have you think little Susy a pic- 
ture of my A., though many seem to regard 
it so. Unconsciously I suppose I made them 
not unlike, yet there is hardly a word of 
literal truth in the whole book. That about 
the burned fingers is, and some other little 
things which related to other children ; for 
instance, Hatty Linton, who is a real child. 
I only tried to make the story true to na- 
ture. The other book l I do long to have 
doing good. I never had such desires about 
anything in my life ; and I never sat down 
to write without first praying that I might 
not be suffered to write anything that would 
do harm, and that, on the contrary, I might 
be taught to say what would do good. And 

1 The Flower of the Family. 



129 

it has been a great comfort to me that every 
word of praise I ever have received from 
others concerning it has been, " // will do 
good!' and this I have had from so many 
sources that amid much trial and sickness 
ever since its publication, I have had rays 
of sunshine creeping in now and then to 
cheer and sustain me. Ill health of the 
peculiar kind under which I suffer is very 
depressing ; it disposes me to write bitter 
things against myself, and to think myself 
a useless cumberer of the ground, so that I 
really need the counter stimulus of an ap- 
proving word from those I love. Oh, my 
dear Carrie, how hard it is to live up to 
one's own ideal ! My own book reproached 
me as I wrote it and reproaches me still, 
and I often wonder how I dared to write 
for the good of others, when I so poorly 
practice my own doctrine ! 

I should love dearly to see your little 
girl and to have her and my own darling 



130 

know each other. She is at a sweet age, 
and I trust will be spared to you. I read 
to A. all you wrote about " Maymee," to 
her great delight. Owing to her lonely 
childhood she is rather too grave and disin- 
clined to go out, or do anything but read ; 
and I was quite amused this morning to 
hear her ask if I did not wish I had a child 
less boyish than herself, when as a matter 
of fact, if I changed her habits at all, it 
would be to those of more life and frolic. 

I don't know what Louise * will say to 
me if she knows I have written so long 
a letter to you. I am sure I love her dear- 
ly, but I feel a sympathy with you beyond 
what I can with her, because you are a 
wife and a mother, which makes it easier 



1 Her old Richmond room-mate, Miss A. L. P 
Lord. Their friendship remained unbroken to the 
last. Miss Lord died in 1883, greatly beloved by 
all who knew her. 



i3i 



to write you than her. But I must stop. 
Do write again soon to 

Your ever affectionate 

Lizzy. 



To the same. 
New YORK, September 14, 1854. 

My dearest Carrie :— A few moments 
ago, after placing my little M. in her cradle, 
I took up the Mirror and read with an 
aching heart the brief notice of the death 
of yours. Is it possible, is it indeed pos- 
sible that you are made childless? Oh, 
what a world this is ! what a world ! What 
would become of us if this were all ! I 
feel distressed for you, my dear friend ; I 
long to fly to you and weep with you ; it 
seems as if I must say or do something to 
comfort you. But God only can help you 
now, and how thankful I am for a throne 
of grace and power to commend you, again 
and again, to Him who doeth all things 
well. I never realize my own affliction in » 



I 3 2 

the loss of my children, as I do when death 
enters the home of a friend. Then I feel 
that I can't have it so ; I can not be willing 
to know they must suffer so. But why 
should I think I know better than my 
Divine Master what is good for me, or 
good for those I love ! Why should I have 
so little faith, so little submission ! Dear 
Carrie, I trust that in this hour of sorrow you 
have with you that Presence before which 
alone sorrow and sighing will flee away. 
God is left ; Christ is left ; sickness, acci- 
dent, death, can not touch you here. Is 
not this a blissful thought ? 

Yesterday a happy mother came to see 
me, who said with great earnestness that 
all her eight children were yet spared to her 
through this sickly season, and that all she 
wanted was gratitude to God. Another the 
day before said very nearly the same thing. 
Yet, sanctified bereavement may be sub- 
ject of higher and holier gratitude ; who 

knows what the light of eternity will re- 
4" »|* 



133 * 

veal concerning these full households and 
your empty one ? As I sit at my desk my 
eye is attracted by the row of books before 
me, and what a comment on life are their 
very titles ! " Songs in the Night," " Light 
on Little Graves," " The Night of Weep- 
ing," "The Death of Little Children," 
"The Folded Lamb," "The Broken Bud," 
— these have strayed one by one into my 
small enclosure, to speak peradventure a 
word in season unto my weariness. And 
yet, dear Carrie, this is not all of life. You 
and I have both tasted some of its highest 
joys, as well as its deepest sorrows, and it 
has in reserve for us only just what is best. 
If you feel able, do write me all about 
your dear child. Everything will interest 
me. Since I saw you, another sweet 
daughter has been lent to me of the Lord. 
Lent, LENT, let me repeat to myself in 
remembrance of my own sorrow and of 
yours. She is seven weeks old, and since 
her birth I have not been without care and 



134 

trial. My husband's mother has been 
lying, for weeks, very ill with dysentery ; 
and fatigue and anxiety brought on him a 
similar attack, which, however, proved less 
severe, and he is now able to go to see her, 
though not strong enough to preach. I 
have been obliged to neglect my baby in 
my care of these two, and to-day for the 

first time washed and dressed her 

My trials have made me feel during the 
last seven weeks that to have no God, is to 
have nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing. 
I write in great haste, hardly knowing 
what ; I only want to express my hearty 
sympathy with you, and to have you know 
how much nearer and dearer sorrow brings 
you to my heart. . May it bring us both 
nearer to Christ ! * 



1 What a comforter she was ! The letter I received 
from her after the birth of my first-born, I shall never 
forget. I had taken my three years' old daughter to 
Chicago, where my husband was going into business. 
She was a child of remarkable attractiveness and in- 
telligence, and my whole being was wrapped up, as it 



135 



To the same. 

New York, October 19, 1854. 
I read your letter, my dear Carrie, with 
many tears, and in my heart have answered 
it twenty times. This morning I do not 
feel as if I could do anything but commune 
with some one who knows what sorrow 
means, for I am oppressed with heavy care. 
By this time I trust you are established 



were, in hers. She seemed blessed with abounding 
health when we left Portland, but almost directly on 
our reaching C, was taken ill ; and among strangers 
in a strange land her life went out in ten days after 
our arrival. When all was over, I gave out utterly, 
and for days lay on my bed, conscious only of a long- 
ing to die, and wondering why I could not die. The 
last words of my darling, as she clung in my arms, 
had been, "Come after me, mamma, you come after 
me." This seemed to me my call— to follow after my 
child — and so the dreary days wore on. One morn- 
ing my husband brought me from the P. O. (into 
which he had accidentally strayed) a letter from New 
York, saying, " Whom do you think it can be from ?'» 
I grasped it and recognized the handwriting. Then a 
sudden revulsion of feeling in my weak state brought 
on a spasm. After a while I read the letter, and oh, 
how it went to my heart ! Lizzy, too, had been be- 



136 

again in Portland, where I may hope oc- 
casionally to see you. How painful was 
the providence that sent you to a land of 
strangers to meet affliction ! But to your 
dear little lamb, it was but a brief sojourn 
there, a sort of entrance-way to the gates 
of Paradise, and the fold of the Good 
Shepherd. Blessed will be the day that 
permits us to go where she has gone. We 
shall then look back upon life and its dis- 



reaved ; she, too, had suffered (I recalled a precious 
letter written in 1852, after the death of Eddy and 
Bessie— a letter whose loss I have bitterly regretted) ; 
and I said to myself, "Is it right to give myself up to 
such grief ? May it not be God's will that, for my 
husband's sake, I should live?" Well, I was fairly 
aroused, lifted up, placed upon my feet, and by the 
grace of God have continued unto this day. This was 
twenty-nine years ago. Lizzy did not know of my re- 
moval from Portland, until she read in the Christian 
Mirror a notice of the death at C. Instantly she was 
prompted to write, directing simply to Chicago. Our 
letters were always brought to the house, addressed 
to the care of Mr. C.'s friend. I have ever felt that 
there was something providential in my receiving that 
letter, so full of sympathy, tenderness, pathos ! It 
touched me as if inspired. — [From a letter of Mrs 

C , dated Portland, Oct. 24, 1883 ] 

4* * 



» 137 

cipline from the right point, and see the 
" needs be " for it all. When I last wrote 
you, I did not like to thrust my own sorrow 
and care upon you in the midst of your over- 
whelming affliction, and it was selfish in me 
even to allude to it. Yet I had a sort of 
feeling that to think of me as rejoicing 
over a new-born child, while you were 
mourning the loss of yours, would some- 
what jar upon your heart, which would 
turn for sympathy to the bereaved and not 

the triumphant mother The dear 

little creature can not raise her head, or 
support it a second if we raise it for 
her, and my own opinion, in which I think 
the doctor now coincides, is that she never 
will sit upright, much less stand upon her 
feet. She has emaciated to such a degree 
that it distresses me to look at her puny 
face and great bright eyes, and the doctor 
has ordered a wet-nurse, under whose wing 
she now sleeps, while I, poor anxious 
mother, am turned out of my nursery that 



* 138 * 

a stranger may do what I most delighted 
in doing, and for want of which I feel lost. 
.... Poor little afflicted darling ! My faith 
has staggered under this new blow, and I 
blush to tell how hard I find it to say 
cheerfully -, " Thy will be done ! " But 
rather than not learn thus to say it, let me 
go on to suffer as long as I live ! Dear 
Carrie, the hand of the Lord is on us both ; 
let us yield ourselves to His pleasure. Oh, 
how I do wish, do long to feel an entire, 
unquestioning submission to Him who 
pities while He afflicts me ! 

I feel much for you and think of you 
every day, praying that the Lord will 
refine you in the furnace, and so make you 
more and more meet for His service here, 
and His presence hereafter. I do trust He 
comforts you with His presence now, and 
that you enjoy that of which I now and 
then catch a blissful glimpse : the sweet- 
ness of submission. I can almost fancy 
that my little Eddy has taken your little 
>j< Maymee by the hand and led her to the^ 



* 139 * 

bosom of Jesus. How strange that our 
children, even our little infants, have seen 
Him in His glory, whom we are only yet 
longing for and struggling towards ! A 
struggle indeed it is to me ; I am so little 
in faith, so strong in will, so determined to 
seek enjoyment away from God. How 
good He is to condescend to go on year 
after year, correcting, restraining, teaching 
us, if haply we will at last give up striving 
against Him, and yield ourselves to His 
will ! Oh, may He hasten on that blessed 
day when we shall know no will but His! 
Dear Carrie, do write often to me ; tell me 
what new thoughts and feelings this sor- 
row is stirring in your heart ; how you 
spend the time that used to be your child's, 
and how you speed on your pilgrimage 
towards that better country whither we are 
bound. I can not tell you how I feel for 
you, nor how much I think of you in your 
lonely hours. 

As ever, affectionately yours, 

♦ Lizzy. * 



. 14° 

To the same. 
New York, February 4, 1856. 
My dear Carrie :— If I had been sure 
anything could be said to soothe or relieve 
you, I should have answered your letter as 
soon as it was received. But if submission 
to God's will is what you need for your 
solace (and I think it is), this is His gift ; 
and He alone can bestow it. Human sym- 
pathy and human aid are useless here. 
Our sorrows are hard enough to bear when 
borne in unquestioning assent and patience. 
They must be insupportable when yielded 
to only as to the inevitable. I have found 
it very useful in studying my heavenly 
Father's dealings with me, to ask myself how 
I would have my child demean herself when 
under my discipline. Everything of docil- 
ity, patience, humility, and repentance I 
require or desire to see in her, He has 
more right and reason to require from me. 
He does not want me to ask questions 
about the mode or time of chastisement, 
>j« or to struggle with Him when I see the blow>j< 



141 

coming. He wants me to submit. He 
wants me even to choose to be smitten, to 
thank Him for it with tenderness and con- 
trition, owning it was what I needed and 

deserved Penitence comes before 

submission, and penitence is God's gift ; 
and He is just as willing to grant that as 
any other of His mercies. When God gave 
you your sweet little Maymee, He had 
already ordained that you should keep her 
only a little while. He sent you to Chica- 
go. He arranged that great aggravation 
of your affliction, that she should die in a 
strange land. So you have nothing to do 
with the question, whether it was wise to 
go there or not. I took my little Eddy on 
no journey ; he was smitten down at home, 
surrounded by watch and care. Should I 
say, " Oh, if I had only taken him away he 
would have lived ! " Such thoughts only 
torture. They do no good, but sour and 
embitter the heart already wounded and in 
need of solace rather than aggravation. 



42 



And the solace is at hand. God, my Fa- 
ther — my Father who loves me — He has af- 
flicted me ; and He makes no mistakes. I 
have asked Him a thousand times to wean 
me from this world, and He is answering my 
prayers. Shall I dispute with Him about 
His methods? Shall I pretend to know a 
better way than His infinite wisdom has 
planned ? Oh, my dear Carrie, how often 
have I walked my room, struggling after 
the sweet peace and comfort to be found 
in such thoughts ; for, do not for a moment 
fancy that because I venture to write 
to you on this subject I have already at- 
tained that entire, unfaltering submission, 
towards which I aim. All I have attained 
is a great longing for it. Sometimes I walk 
up and down for hours, chafed and torn by 
the wild beast that rages in my soul, refus- 
ing to yield, refusing to be comforted. But 
I look upon myself at such times as a 
grievous sinner, and there are moments 
when I can see afar off in the distance. 



F 143 ft 

sweet peace and holy submission which 
shall one day be mine. Oh, let us study 
our blessed Master's will more and more, 
till the time comes when we shall learn to 
count our mercies and be silent concerning 
our sorrows, and shall ask nothing, care for 
nothing, but to be like Him whose name 
we bear. 

Since I received your letter, we have 
been greatly moved by a new alarm con- 
cerning our dear little daughter. She is 
now eighteen months old, a sweet age, and 
we had begun to feel that she might yet 
enjoy life and help us to enjoy it. She 
was suddenly taken ill a few nights ago ; 
and lay about twelve hours at the very 
door of death. The doctor gave us no hope, 
supposing her to be dying when he came 
in, and only suggesting that she might get 
through the night. She was quite insensi- 
ble through the whole, and so nearly gone 
that her little hands were cold, purple, and 
stiff. It was a very dreary night. The 



144 

suddenness of the blow made it startling. 
Five minutes before she became insensible 
she was playing peep, and appearing unusu- 
ally bright and well. Her little blue frock 
and white apron were lying in her basket 
just as they were taken off a few minutes 
before, and it seemed to me I must see her 
in them once more ; and my heart ached 
so for poor A., already bereft of her 
playmates, and whose love for her lit- 
tle sister is so tender and thoughtful. God 
spared her, is still sparing her ; but at any 
moment she is likely to be snatched away. 
Her father feels, as I do, that while the 
suspense is very hard to bear, every week 
she lives will be something to remember 
and enjoy, after she is gone. She is very, 
very dear to us. 

Eddy's little sayings still comfort and 
are precious to us. We rejoice that we 
had him three years. Life looks more and 
more to me like a weary pilgrimage which 
I am making towards a home. I pray God 



145 

it may always seem so, and that I may 
forever turn my back on the world and set 
my face towards Him. Prosperity I begin 
to dread more than adversity. 

" Nearer, my God, to Thee ! Nearer to Thee ! 
E'en though it be a cross that raiseth me." 

" The Folded Lamb " is the history of a 
very remarkable little boy, three years old, 
who died in England. My copy is lent, 
and I fear lost, or I would send it to you. 
It would not afford you any special comfort, 
but it is always some solace to a bereaved 
mother to read about other sweet children, 
likewise " folded " by the Good Shepherd. 
He was the most wonderful child I ever 
heard of. If it will not frighten you to 
own a Unitarian book, there is one called 
" Christian Consolations," by Rev. A. P. 
Peabody, that I think you would find very 
profitable. I see nothing, or next to noth- 
ing, Unitarian in it, while it is full of rich, 
holy experience. One sermon, on " Con- 



146 

tingent Events and Providence," touches 
your case exactly. As to my last little 
book, I do not suppose' you would care 
anything about it, as it is for little children 
of eight years. I began another Susy 
book, but can not do much when so rest- 
less, though what I can do is a pleasant 
resource. If I could cry, I do not think I 
should write books. But there must be 
some vent to the activity of brain afflic- 
tion creates. I should love to see your little 
Emma. Count your mercies, dear Carrie. 
What would you do with your time, if she 
did not occupy it? As to Maymee, you 
know you have not lost her; she is only 
gone home first, and is waiting ; and as Mr. 
Peabody suggests, praying for you there. 
I have written a long letter, and hope to 
get a long answer. 

With best love, as ever, 

Lizzy. 



IX. 

The bright Side of Sorrow — Letters written 
in 1858-9 and 1866. 



Come unto me, my kindred ! I enfold you 
In an embrace to sufferers only known ; 

Close to this heart I tenderly will hold you, 
Suppress no sigh, keep back no tear, no groan, 



IX. 



To Mrs. S. H. 

New York, January 20, 1858. 

MY DEAR COUSIN : — I have just heard, 
with great pain, of the death of your dear 
little boy, and most heartily wish I could 
say or do something to comfort you. 
There is, indeed, not much that the ten- 
derest sympathy can do in such affliction as 
yours, and all ordinary sources of consola- 
tion are a painful mockery to the breaking 
heart. I know it by my own experience ; 
it did me no good to hear people say, 
" Your child is better off ; he might have 
lived to give you great pain " — for I felt it 
to be equally true that he might have lived 
to give me great joy, and that my intense 
love for him might have made even this 
* (149) 4. 



150 

weary world a happy home to him. But 
the simple thought, " God has done this ; 
He, who never makes a mistake, has done 
this "; has it not infinite consolation ? 

Faith grows strong when great demands 
are made upon it, and yours truly needs 
strength, for I do feel that you are sorely 
smitten. You have your prayers for entire 
sanctification very painfully answered. But 
besides the rest the soul finds in just sub- 
mitting to God's will, there is comfort in 
knowing that this will is not arbitrary ; 
that the blow may do for us what smiles 
and gifts never did and never can do. I 
look with a certain joy on the afflicted 
child of God, because I know he will have 
to run to Christ for refuge, and that he 
will find what he seeks. This is truly a 
sorrowful world ; everybody is tried and 
tempted and afflicted. How few parents 
there are who never lost a child ! And is 
it true, is it really true, that the mother 
who has never known this sorrow, this in- 



151 v 

curable sorrow, is the mother most to be 
envied ? Do not disappointment and sor- 
row bear the best fruit ? 

I know this world never can seem to you 
as it did before you lost your precious 
boy ; but then think how many, many 
times you have prayed to be weaned from 
it. All the Christian needs to help him to 
bear its trials and losses is a quiet submis- 
sion to God's will, and a holy courage to 
endure the pain. Pain I know there must 
be ; no manner of consolation can help 
that ; and when the mind is once convinced 
of this, and sits patiently down content to 
suffer, or, what is better, rises up cheerfully, 
though still suffering, the battle is half won. 
Some one has said she would not be the 
only unchastened child in her Father's 
house, if she could ; I doubt not you can 
and do say so too, and that if a wish could 
recall your dear child, you would not 
breathe the wish. Oh, how good God is 
not to give us over to our own way ; not 



152 

to tempt us with too great prosperity ; not 
to grant us our request and send leanness 
into our souls ! I trust and pray, my dear 
cousin, that He will be very near you now 
and evermore, giving you such communion 
with Himself, such peace in believing, such 
hope of heaven, such sweet submission as 
are better than ten sons. 

I fear I have not said much to comfort 
you, though I did long to do so ; but I 
know you will accept the wish. Give my 
love to Mary. She is afflicted in your 
affliction, I know ; but I know, too, that 
she is one who understands the blessed 
uses of sorrow and pain. 

Yours affectionately, 

Lizzy. 

Mr. P. joins me in every expression of 
sympathy ; and as to the bright side of 
sorrow, he feels just as I do. 









153 



To Mrs. R. K. M. 

Montreux, October 24, 1858. 

My dear Cousin : — What was my grief 
and pain on taking up the paper, which 
had been lying round unread for more 
than a week, to see the notice of the 
death of your dear little Katie. I read 
and re-read it, hoping to find, in my selfish- 
ness, that it was somebody else's Katie 
and not yours. I was thinking of you, 
when I took up the paper, and saying to 
myself what a long letter I was going to 
write ; but now I feel little heart to write, 
and you will feel no heart to read a word. 
Now I realize that there is an ocean be- 
tween us which not only forbids my flying 
to see you, but which will for months, per- 
haps, keep me in ignorance of your state 
beyond the one bare sad fact which a news- 
paper has cruelly told me. Dear Hatty, 
my heart aches for you. That little, bright, 
sweet face is vividly before me. I know 



T 154 T 

your motherly heart, your anxious temper, 
and how many trials and sorrows you have 
already passed through, and tremble lest 
this blow should quite crush you ; and I 
can not help fearing, that whatever disease 
snatched her from you, may have assailed 
the other children also. 

This is, indeed, a weary world ; and at 
times when I think of losing my children, 
I almost triumph in the thought of the 
heart-sickness, the sorrow, and the conflict 
they would escape by an early death. But 
this is not the Christian source of consola- 
tion, for at best it is a partial and fitful 
one. The real solace, the true refuge, I 
do not doubt you have found, for God 
does not deal such blows as that under 
which you are weeping without giving 
grace and strength to bear them. I often 
used to wonder how a devoted mother ever 
lived through the loss of a child, bone of 
her bone and flesh of her flesh ; and I 
never knew, till I learned the sorrow my. 



155 

self, what secret springs of holy peace and 
joy He could make it afford. It is, indeed, 
such a joy and peace as the world knows 
nothing about, and must needs be mixed 
with tears and groans as long as we dwell 
here upon earth. Dear little Katie ! happy 
little Katie ! she never will know what this 
hard world can do to us ! She never can 
know the anguish of remorse or the pangs 
of a heart out of harmony with itself ! 
Her sunny little life knew nothing about 
clouds and darkness, and never can. I 
long to learn every particular about her,/ 
and if you do not feel able to write, I hope- 
dear Mary will. How glad I am that youi 
have her faithful heart to lean on in your 
affliction. 

We have taken rooms here, and are keep- 
ing house in a pleasant situation near the 
lake of Geneva, but neither George or my- 
self is well enough to thoroughly enjoy 
our comforts or our advantages. I see 
now that he did not stop working am^ 



i 5 6 

too soon, and that a little delay would 
have been fatal. 



To the same. 
Montreux, Ja,7iitary 13, 1859. 

My poor, darling Hatty: — I have 
just received dear Mary's letter, which has 
made my heart ache for you, and I hardly 
feel as if I could wait for a letter to go all 
the way to New York before you can hear 
how I long to do something, or say some- 
thing, to comfort you. Oh, what a dread- 
ful world this is, and how happy are your 
three blessed little ones to have left its sins 
and sorrows forever behind them ! There 
are times when the burden of life seems 
too hard to bear, and yet we must go strug- 
gling and toiling on, dragging it on with 
us as best we can. Dear little Rufie ! So 
full of health and beauty ! It did seem as 
if he could not be sick and die! I know 
what it is to be left with an only child, and 



157 

all the torture and solicitude of having 
only one left. But it is true, as George 
said when we finished reading Mary's let- 
ter, that losing a baby a month old is not 
like giving up such a child as Rufie. God 
only can give you strength to endure all 
He has laid upon you ; and one source of 
earthly comfort lies open to every broken 
and bruised heart, which we are perhaps 
too apt to forget. It is the avoidance of 
comparisons — the not allowing ourselves to 
cast one envying glance on other house- 
holds where sickness and sorrow seem to 
be almost unknown. If we only can wait 
till the end we shall see all these mysteries 
explained ; why you should bear children 
only to lose them with tenfold the anguish 
the bearing cost you, and why many a 
mother sees her table surrounded with hap- 
py faces, and not one vacant place. 



Soon and forever 
The breaking of day 



i 5 8 

Shall drive all the night-clouds 

Of sorrow away. 
We'll see as we're seen 

And learn the deep meaning 
Of things that have been, 

When tears and when fears 
And when death shall be never, 

Christians with Christ shall be 
Soon, and forever." 

When I think of all your many trials 
and afflictions, dear Hatty, how great is 
the sum of them ! And knowing as well 
as I do all the sweet uses of sorrow, if it 
were left to me or any earthly friend who 
loves you to say whether you should ever 
have another, how we should exclaim and 
protest against it. And yet how much 
better God loves you than we do, and how 
well He knew, when He gave you those 
dear children, what He was going to do 
with them and with you. Notwithstand- 
ing all He knew you would suffer, He 
who is very pitiful and of tender mercy 
let the blow fall. It is a mystery — but 



*r 159 * 

a mystery of love — just as all the pain- 
ful remedies you used for dear little 
Katie and Rufie would have seemed to 
them if they could have reasoned about it. 
" How strange," little Rufie might have 
said, " if my mother loves me that she 
gives me medicines that make me so sick ! " 
Oh, dear Hatty, why can we not have more 
faith ? with it we might bear any and every- 
thing ! I know it, I see it ; but my faith 
is like a grain of mustard-seed. The least 
thing sets me to crying out : " What a 
miserable sinner I must be since God finds 
it needful so to harass and disappoint and 
weary me ! " when I ought rather to ex- 
claim : " How my blessed Master proves 
His love for me, a sinner, in not leaving 
me to the temptations of worldly felicity ! " 
But if we do see through a glass, darkly, 
now, it will not always be so. " Soon, and 
forever," dear Hatty, you will see " face 
to face "; you will fall down and worship 
Him who took away little Eddie, Katie, 



i6o 



and Rufie, and look back on all your suffer- 
ings with the smile of one who has fought 
the fight, whose battle is ended, and whose 
victory is won. I do not doubt that even 
this world may yet afford you some joys 
and alleviations, for all is not lost ; but it 
never can seem a real home to one who has 
so often experienced its tribulations as you 
have. Your only deep and abiding and 
satisfying happiness must be in God — in 
trying to live for Him, and in doing and 
suffering His will. May He comfort you 
as no earthly friend can even try to do, and 
grant you His peace. 

Dear little M., how her childhood has 
been clouded ! Tell her we all love her, 
and wish we could have her here a little 
while to tell her so. I am sure she will 
always be a good child when she remem- 
bers that three little angels are watching 
and praying for her. 

The mail that brought Mary's letter, also 
announced the death of my dear friend, 



«* 161 

Mrs. Wain w right, whose loss to me is irrep- 
arable, for she was like a mother to me. 
The news came like a thunderclap. I do 
not know that I ever doubted seeing her 
again ; she had lived through such a long 
and dangerous illness since we knew her 
that I fancied her life sure for many years. 
At any rate I loved her most heartily, and 
her death makes me tremble when letters 
come in lest I hear of another loss. 



To Mrs. M. R. B. 

Dorset, August 26, 1866. 

My dear Mrs. B. : — I have been lying 
on the bed trying to get a little rest before 
writing you, but my eyes keep filling with 
tears and will not let me sleep. Dear, dar- 
ling little Johnnie ! All the wealth of affec- 
tion lavished on him could not keep him 
away from his real home ! I have been think- 
ing with what acclamations we all welcomed 



1 62 



him when he lighted down upon us, and of 
the yet more wondrous joy with which he 
has been met on the threshold of heaven. 
How could we have failed to foresee that 
this pure and spiritual little creature was 
sent here but for a brief mission, and must 
inevitably be recalled when his errand was 
done. For whether we ever know it or 
not, God knows that this little brief life 
had a ministry of its own, and that a far- 
reaching one. I almost envy him, that " he 
has so easily won his crown, while we must 
go on fighting for ours." But for you and for 
you all how sorry, how sorry I am, that you 
are passing through the weariness and pain- 
fulness of a new sorrow, which will revive 
every one of the past, and make you trem- 
ble for the precious things still left you. I 
am sure I need not say that I pray for . 
you with all my heart, that God would 
comfort you and keep you. He can ; and 
no human sympathy is of much avail. You 
have been longing and yearning for more 



I63 

perfect union to Christ, and He has per- 
haps chosen to answer your prayers in this 
way — painful now and very hard to bear 
but afterward it may yield the peaceable 
fruits of righteousness. How often we 
cry — 

" Nearer, my God, to Thee ! Nearer to Thee, 
E'en tho' it be a cross that raiseth me ! " 



and then when He takes us at our word, 
how we shudder and shrink from the very 
suffering we have invoked. 

You are still very rich in children, who 
will do all they can to comfort you. But 
this is a great blow for them with their 
keen sensibilities, and you will feel their 
sorrow as well as your own. Give my love 
to them, every one ; give my dear little G. 
a special kiss for me ; how I should love to 
see that sunny head moving about, as we 
did last summer ! I dare not weary you 
with a longer letter, though I could go on 
writing all night. Annie sends a great deal 



of love to you and to all the children. Re- 
member me to your husband, who I know 
will deeply feel this sorrow, and believe me 
Most affectionately yours, 

E. Prentiss. 



OH, DARLING LITTLE BABY. 

Oh, darling little baby, 
How glad we are you've come ! 
And now we'll bid you welcome, 
We'll sing you welcome home. 
We'll love you dearly, baby, 
We'll love you night and day — 
And Jesus, too, will love you 
And keep all harm away. 
We'll love, we'll love, 
Yes, love, love, love. 

You are so pure, 

You are so dear, 

We're all so glad that you are here, 

We're all, we're all so glad that you are here. 

Oh, darling baby brother, 
We're glad that you are here, 
And all your little cooings 
Are music to our ear ; 






* 



165 

We long to have you with us, 
Within our happy band, 
To kiss and to caress you 
And touch your little hand. 
We love, we love, 
Yes, love, love, love. 

You are so pure, 

You are so dear, 

We're all so glad that you are here, 

We're all, we're all so glad that you are here. 1 

1 These lines were written by Mrs. Prentiss after the birth 
of our little Johnnie. Nine little voices were trained by her 
daughter A. , and the lines were sung; under my window just be- 
fore the setting of the sun, when he was but a few days old. 
To me the music seemed as from the spirit land, welcoming 
our darling child* One short year, and he was called to that 
land, verifying her own words : 

" That child will be a saint." 

November 5, 1S79. M. R. B. 



X. 



Witnessing for Christ as Healer of the broken- 
hearted — Letters written in 1870-2 — " The 
Mother "—"Is it well with the Child 2 "— 
" Is it well with thee ? " 



Dear Lord, my heart was but a willful thing, 
Strong in its strength, and ever on the wing ; 
It needed mastership, and Thou hast claimed it, 
It needed taming, and Thy hand has tamed it. 
Now, gentle, peaceful, harmless as a dove, 
It lives as erst it lived its life, in love ; 
Love to all living things that Thou hast made, 
A love that is all sunshine without shade. 
Thy fair, green earth is dotted as with flowers, 
With little human souls, and blissful hours 
I spend in blessed ministries to them. 
Ah, many a flower I gather, many a gem ! 
And I have Thee ! 



X. 



To Mrs. F. F. 

New York, October 19, 1870. 
My DEAR Mrs. F. : — I deeply appreciate 
the Christian kindness that prompted you 
to write me in the midst of your sorrow. 
I was prepared for the sad news by a 
dream, only last night. I fancied myself 
seeing your dear little boy lying very rest- 
lessly on his bed, and proposing to carry 
him about in my arms to relieve him. He 
made no objection, and I walked up and 
down with him a long, long time, when 
some one of the family took him from me. 
Instantly his face was illumined by a won- 
drous smile of delight that he was to leave 
the arms of a stranger and go to those fa- 
miliar to him ; such a smile, that when I 
* (169) * 



170 

awoke this morning, I said to myself, " Ed- 
die F. has gone to the arms of his Sav- 
iour, and gone gladly." You can imagine 
how your letter, an hour or two later, 
touched me. 

But you have better consolations than 
dreams can give : the belief that your child 
will develop without spot or wrinkle or 
any such thing, into the perfect likeness 
of Christ, and in your own submission to 
the unerring will of God. I sometimes 
think that patient sufferers suffer most ; 
they make less outcry than others, but the 
grief that has little vent wears sorely. 

"Grace does not steel the faithful heart, 
That it should feel no ill." 

.And you have many a pang yet before 
you. It must be so very hard to see twin 
children part company, to have their paths 
diverge so soon. But the shadow of death 
will not always rest on your home ; you 
will emerge from its obscurity into such a 



171 

light as they who have never sorrowed can 
not know. We never know, or begin to 
know, the great Heart that loves us best, 
till we throw ourselves upon it in the 
hour of our despair. Friends say and do 
all they can for us, but they do not 
know what we suffer or what we need ; but 
Christ, who formed, has penetrated the 
depths of the mother's heart. He pours in 
the wine and the oil that no human hand 
possesses, and "as one whom his mother 
comforteth, so will He comfort you." 

You know, perhaps, that I once had a 
little Eddy ; three months after his death 
my Bessie went ; then came the far greater 
pain of seeing my poor M. a constant inva- 
lid for seven years. Wave after wave ; and 
yet I have lived to thank God for it all, and 
to see that He never was so good to me as 
when He seemed most severe. Thus I 
trust and believe it will be with you and 
your husband. Meanwhile, while the peace- 
able fruits are growing and ripening, may 



172 

God help you through the grievous time 
that must pass ; a grievous time, in which 
you have my warm sympathy; I know, 
only too well, all about it. 

" I know my griefs, but then my consolations, 
My joys, and my immortal hopes I know " — 

joys unknown to the prosperous, hopes 
that spring from seed long buried in the 
dust. 

I shall read your books with great inter- 
est, I am sure, and who knows how God 
means to prepare you for future usefulness 
along the path of pain ? 

" Every branch that beareth fruit, He 
purgeth it, that it may bring forth more 
fruit." 

With kindest regards to Mr. F., 
I am affectionately yours, 

E. Prentiss. 

What an epitaph your boy's own words 
would be, " It is beautiful to be dead ! " 



173 



To the same. 
New York, November 30, 1870. 
My DEAR Mrs. F. :— I thank you so 
much for your letter about your precious 
children. I remember them well, all three, 
and do not wonder that the death of your 
first-born, coming upon the very footsteps 
of sorrow, has so nearly crushed you. 1 
But what beautiful consolations God gave 
you by his dying bed — " All safe at God's 
right hand." What more can the fondest 
mother's heart ask than such safety as 
this ? I am sure that there will come to 
you, sooner or later, the sense of Christ's 
love in these repeated sorrows, that in your 
present bewildered, amazed state you can 
hardly realize. Let me tell you that I have 
tried His heart in a long storm, not so very 



1 Edward S. died October 14, 1870, aged eight 
years; Amy Gertrude died November 5, aged one 
year; Alfred B. died November 12, aged thirteen 
years. 



1/4 

different from yours, and that I know some- 
thing of its depths. I will enclose some 
lines that may give you a moment's light ; 
please not to let them go out of your hands, 
for no one, not even my husband, has ever 
seen them. 

To go back again to the subject of 
Christ's love for us, of which I never tire, 
I want to make you feel that His sufferers 
are His happiest, most favored disciples. 
What they learn about Him, His pitiful- 
ness, His unwillingness to hurt us, His 
haste to bind up the very wounds He. has 
inflicted, endear Him so, that at last they 
burst out into songs of thanksgiving that 
His " donation of bliss " included in it such 
donation of pain. Perhaps I have already 
said to you, for I am fond of saying it, 

"The love of Jesus, what it is 
Only His sufferers know." 



You ask if your heart will ever be light- 
some again ? Never again with the light- 



175 

someness that had never known sorrow ; 
but light even to gaiety with the new and 
higher love born of tribulation. Just as 
far as a heavenly is superior to even ma- 
ternal love, will be the elevation and beauty 
of your new joy — a joy worth all it costs. 
I know what sorrow means ; I know it 
well ; but I know, too, what it is to pass 
out of that prison-house into a peace that 
passes all understanding; and thousands 
can say the same. So, my dear, suffering 
sister, look on and look up ; lay hold on 
Christ with both your poor, empty hands ; 
let Him do with you what seemeth Him 
good ; though He slay you, still trust in 
Him, and I dare, in His name, to promise 
you a sweeter, better life than you could 
have known had He left you to drink of 
the full, dangerous cups of unmingled pros- 
perity. I feel such real and living sym- 
pathy with you that I would love to spend 
weeks by your side trying to bind up your 
broken heart. But for the gospel of Christ, 



176 

to hear of such bereavements as yours 
would appall, would madden one. Yet 
what a halo surrounds that word " but" / 
Ever affectionately yours, 

E. Prentiss. 



To the same. 
New York, January 8, 1871. 
If I need make any apology for writing 
you so often, it must be this — I can not 
help it. Having dwelt long in an obscure, 
oftentimes dark valley, and then passed 
out into a bright plane of life, I am full of 
tender yearnings over other souls, and 
would gladly spend my whole time and 
strength for them. I long especially to 
see your feet established on the immovable 
Rock. It seems to me that God is prepar- 
ing you for great usefulness by the fiery 
trial of your faith — " They learn in suffering 
what they teach in song." Oh, how true 
this is. Who is so fitted to sing praises to 



* 177 * 

Christ as he who has learned Him in hours 
of bereavement, disappointment, and de- 
spair ? 

What you want is to let your intellect 
go overboard, if need be, and to take what 
God gives just as a little child takes it, 
without money and without price. Faith 
is His, unbelief ours. No process of reason- 
ing can soothe a mother's empty, aching 
heart, or bring Christ into it to fill up all 
that great waste room. But faith can ; 
and faith is His gift ; a gift to be won by 
prayer — prayer persistent, patient, deter- 
mined ; prayer that will take no denial ; 
prayer that if it goes away one day unsatis- 
fied, keeps on saying, " Well, there's to-mor- 
row and to-morrow and to-morrow ; God 
may wait to be gracious, and I can wait to 
receive, but receive I must and will." This 
is what the Bible means when it says, " The 
kingdom of heaven suffereth violence, and 
the violent take it by force." It does not 
say the eager, the impatient take it by 
4 ♦ 



i 7 8 



force, but the violent — they who declare, 
" I will not let Thee go except Thou bless 
me." This is all heart, not head work. Do 
I know what I am talking about ? Yes, I do ; 
but my intellect is of no use to me when 
my heart is breaking. I must get down on 
my knees and own that I am less than 
nothing ; seek God, not joy ; consent to 
suffer, not cry for relief. And how tran- 
scendency good He is when He brings me 
down to that low place and there shows 
me that that self-renouncing, self-despairing 
spot is just the one where He will stoop to 
meet me ! 

My dear friend., don't let this great 
tragedy of sorrow fail to do everything for 
you. It is a dreadful thing to lose chil- 
dren ; but a lost sorrow is the most fearful 
experience life can bring. I feel this so 
strongly that I could go on writing all day. 
It has been said that the intent of sorrow 
is to " toss us on to God's promises." Alas, 
these waves too often toss us away out to 



1/9 

sea, where neither sun nor stars appear for 
many days. I pray earnestly that it may 
not be so with you. 



To Mrs. F. G. 

Dorset, August i, 1872. 
My DEAR Mrs. G. : — We learn from the 
papers how sorely you are afflicted, and 
sympathize with you most truly in this 
irreparable loss. I told Mr. Prentiss I was 
going to write you, and he cut out your 
address and put it in my " Daily Food " 
this morning, in the midst of the hurry of 
starting off on a journey. As I took up 
the little book, where for thirty-seven years 
I have been wont to resort for consolation, 
I was struck with the selection for July 27 
— a day that to you will always be memo- 
rable, but not always one of unmixed sor- 
row. I can not forbear quoting them : 

" God is our refuge and strength, a very present 
help in trouble." — Psalm xlvi. 1. 



T 1 80 T 

In the darkest dispensations, 
Doth my faithful Lord appear 

With His richest consolations, 
To reanimate and cheer ; 

Sweet affliction, sweet affliction, 
Thus to bring my Saviour near. 

" Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be 
removed, and though the mountains be carried into 
the midst of the sea." — PSALM xlvi. 2. 

To us mothers the loss of a child is in- 
deed like the earth being moved, and I 
know how you must be suffering. But 
such a sorrow as this is better than to be 
passed by and left to unbroken earthly joy, 
and I believe you will kiss the Father's 
rod, hurt though it does, and find the only 
consolation there is in saying, "Thy will be 
done ! " I know no other, but it is a con- 
solation, a soul-satisfying one. I wish I 
had seen your dear baby ; but if I had, it 
would not deepen my sympathy, which 
springs rather from what I know the poor 
human heart to be, than from my knowl- 
edge that he was so fine a child. This sum- 



mer has been one of slaughter of the inno- 
cents ; many and many a heart is bleeding 
like yours, but has none of the precious 
promises to sustain and cheer it, as you 
have. 

Mr. P. left messages of love and sympa- 
thy for you and your husband. 

Affectionately yours, 

E. P. 



To Mrs. P. S. 

Dorset, August 25, 1870. 
My DEAR Mrs. S. :— I know how little 
words can do for such a sorrow as yours, 
yet can not help expressing my most heart- 
felt sympathy with you in it. You are in- 
deed sorely smitten in having that beautiful 
boy snatched from you without warning ; 
so sorely, that those who love you must 
share in your sufferings. May God — who 
only, of those who love you, could have 
dared visit you with so wholly unexpected, 
so terrible a blow — make your darling 



* 



182 

boy such a minister of heavenly grace and 
benediction to your soul, as to become as- 
sociated with a joy with which no stranger 
may intermeddle. That He can do this I 
have not the shadow of a doubt. Mean- 
while, thousands of prayers are ascending 
for you and for your husband that will help 
you through the overwhelming days and 
nights that must come : otherwise, how 
could your often-bereaved hearts bear on 
and not utterly sink beneath the waves? 
" The way to peace," says one who knows 
the way, " lies through a greater, a warmer, 
a more tender, a more personal love to 
God "; this is surely a sweet way to peace, 
and it has been traversed by many lacerated 
feet that have come back to tell the story, 
and to testify, that when the very founda- 
tions of the earth seemed giving way, He 
remained whom no accident could snatch 
away, no chance ever change. Your dear 
boy reached heaven by a very short and 
easy path. I remember hearing your hus- 



183 

band say once, " From home to heaven," 
and it is beautiful to think how near they 
are to each other, and how a child's little 
footsteps can pass out of the one, only to 
pass right into the genial heart of the 
other. 1 

But I feel that I am intruding on a grief 
that can bear little ; forgive me if I have 
in any way jarred upon you, and believe in 
the deep sympathy of 

Yours warmly and truly, 

E. Prentiss. 

1 The ' beautiful boy ' was nine years old. His 
sudden death is referred to on p. 354 of the memoir 
of Mrs. Prentiss. A touching - account of him is 
given in a little volume by Dr. SchafF, entitled Our 
Children in Heaven. 



8 4 



THE MOTHER. 

I. 

As I have seen a mother bend 

With aching, bleeding heart, 
O'er lifeless limbs and lifeless face — 

So have I had to part 

II. 

With the sweet prattler at my knee. 

The baby from my breast, 
And on the lips so cold in death, 

Such farewell kisses prest. 

III. 
If I should live a thousand years 

Time's hand can not efface 
The features painted on my heart 

Of each beloved face. 

IV. 

If I should bathe in endless seas 

They could not wash away 
The memory of these children's forms ; — 

How fresh it is to-day. 

V. 

Ah, how my grief has taught my heart 

To feel another's woe ! 
With what a sympathetic pang 

I watch the tear-drops flow ! 



i8s 



VI. 



Dear Jesus ! must Thou take our lambs. 

Our cherished lambs away ? 
Thou hast so many, we so few — 

Canst Thou not let them stay ? 

VII. 

Must the round limbs we love so well. 
Grow stiff and cold in death ? 

Must all our loveliest flowerets fall 
Before his icy breath ? 

VIII. 

Nay, Lord, but it is hard, is hard — 

Oh give us faith to see 
That grief, not joy, is best for us 

Since it is sent by Thee. 

IX. 

And oh, by all our mortal pangs 
Hear Thou the mother's plea — 

Be gracious to the darling ones 
We've given back to Thee. 

x. 

Let them not miss the mother's love, 

The mother's fond caress ; 
Gather them to Thy gentle breast 

In faithful tenderness. 



1 86 



XI. 

Oh, lead them into pastures green, 

And unto living springs ; 
Gather them in Thine arms, and shield 

Beneath Thy blessed wings. 

XII. 

Ah, little reck they that we weep, 
And wring our empty hands ; — 

Blessed, thrice blessed are infant feet 
That walk Immanuel's lands ! 

XIII. 

Blessed the souls that ne'er shall know 

Of sin the mortal taint, 
The hearts that ne'er shall swell with grief 

Or utter a complaint ! 

XIV. 

Brief pangs for us, long joy for them ! 

Thy holy Name we bless, 
We could not give them up to Thee, 

Lord, if we loved them less ! 



"IS IT WELL WITH THE CHILD?" 

Yes, it is well ! For he has gone from me, 
From my poor care, my human fallacy, 



i87 



Straight to the Master's school, the Shepherd's love 

Blessed are they whose training is above ! 

He will grow up in heaven, will never know 

The conflicts that attend our life below. 

He from his earliest consciousness shall walk 

With Christ Himself in glory ; he shall talk 

With sinless little children, and his ear 

No sound discordant, no harsh word shall hear. 

Nay, but I have no words with which to tell 

How well it is with him — how well, how well ! 



"IS IT WELL WITH THEE?" 

Yes, it is well ! For while with " anguish wild " 
I gave to God, who asked him, my child, 
He gave to me strong faith, and peace and joy ; 
Gave me these blessings when He took my boy. 
He gave Himself to me ; in boundless grace 
Within my deepest depths He took His place ; 
Made heaven look home-like, made my bleeding heart 
In all the grief of other hearts take part ; 
Brought down my pride, burnt up my hidden dross, 
Made me fling down the world and clasp the cross ; 
Ah, how my inmost soul doth in me swell, 
When I declare that all with me is well ! 



